The Only Truth
by maximsk
Summary: Sometimes, all it takes is one mistake for something to fall apart. Sometimes, when the wrong thing falls apart, everyone pays for it. The Second War with the Empire has been raging for three long months. Plenty of mistakes have been made.
1. Kamian 1

**This is a sequel to The Currents of Time. Enjoy!**

Sundas, 4:12 PM, 15th of First Seed, 4E 202

Labyrinthian

The only reason Kamian was here was the damn mask. For a wanderer like him, the safest place to keep anything was on his person, and what had it done? It had vanished. He'd been traveling through the Pale when it happened. One moment, everything was normal, the mask was safe in his bags, and the next, those bags had suddenly become a couple pounds lighter. No more mask. It was just gone.

There was only place he could think of to look for it—the place where he'd found it. Not because anyone would return something so unique to its resting place, but because he'd found the thing in the only place where it could even be put to use.

If Kamian's years of travel had taught him anything, it was this: all Nordic ruins looked basically the same. He'd seen it a hundred times. Dark stone dusted with white snow. Steep staircases at neat right angles. Gargantuan triangular spires. Ancient, broken aqueducts. A derelict perimeter wall. Random structures of stone standing out in the open. Entrances to all manner of underground vaults and crypts.

Labyrinthian was this formula taken to its logical extreme. Not only did it feature a sprawling tangle of every single item from the list, its main entrance led to one of the deepest and most mysterious ruins in Tamriel. After all, it wasn't a tomb that lay in the earth here. It was a city.

There was no one else here. When Kamian walked in past the outer wall, he was greeted by a completely lifeless ruin. The stone structures were devoid of occupants. The only sound was the alpine wind rushing by.

A less observant person—or perhaps less experienced—might have been simply relieved that there was no one else here to have to deal with. But Kamian had been here before. The whole surface ruin was supposed to be infested with frost trolls and other wildlife to fight past. They were all missing. This was wrong.

As Kamian walked, he began to sort through conclusions to make. His mask had vanished from his possession. The place he'd found it was eerily empty of life. His pace quickened. His list of possible explanations was very short.

The entrance to Labyrinthian's deepest reaches was, in accordance with counterintuitive mountainside architecture, high above the rest of the ruins. It was sealed by a unique ceremonial door. No one had been able to open it for decades. A key part of the door mechanism was missing, and all attempts to force through had failed.

Kamian already knew that if he went up there, he would find those doors wide open. It was just the next logical step in this puzzle.

Labyrinthian was an ominous place for most Nords. The ruins of an ancient city, condemned by history, best left undisturbed. There were rumors of a great power hidden beneath its surface, some ancient sort of evil, sealed away from the reach of the men of today.

It so happened that Kamian knew quite a lot more than the common rumors. He knew exactly what that great power was. He'd come to Skyrim specifically to deal with its kind. There had been eight of them when he'd first arrived. Now there was one. This last one.

The only being in the world who could plausibly have taken the mask from him.

One of the freestanding structures in Labyrinthian's area was a low, stone dome, shallow enough to walk up on top of, barely high enough to comfortably walk beneath. An open arch doorway was set in one side. Even from the perimeter wall, the dome was only a stone's throw away.

Unremarkable, at first glance. Many ancient Nordic structures used this design. It could have just as easily been found in the plains of Whiterun Hold, or in the barren ice of the Pale, where he had just been.

But when Kamian laid eyes on this dome, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold in the air. This was the place where he'd found his mask. The only place where it could be used.

He circled around the structure slowly, ducked in through the outer doors, and started circling again. These domes always had a central chamber ringed by an outer one. It never failed.

The central chamber of this sanctuary was a mess. The ground was broken into pieces. There were bits of stone and ice everywhere. Sunlight filtered in through a few odd holes in the roof.

At the far end of the chamber, there was a shrine. A semicircular platform of stone, just big enough for eight stone busts across its diameter, four on either side of a stylized dragon's head. It had long since been reduced to the same state of ruin as the rest of this place.

This was it. This was what Kamian had traveled here for. He stepped carefully through the debris, right up to the shrine itself. Eight ancient faces stared lifelessly at him. He stared back. What was he here for?

He'd come to Labyrinthian looking for a sign. It felt like this was the place to find it. He had questions, and the answer was at his fingertips.

Something compelled him to look down at his feet. He didn't know what. It felt like something was down there.

Kamian's heart sank. There were pieces of wood amid the stone. He already knew what they were. He would have recognized them anywhere. But still, he crouched down and picked one up in his ebony-clad hand.

He was holding a splintered half of a wooden dragon priest mask.

He had to go find his brother.


	2. Thorald 1

Middas, 10:11 PM, 4th of First Seed, 4E 202

The Pale

Hand over hand. Don't look down. Do not look down.

Thorald was nearly at the top of his rope. The wind blew through the slits in his helmet, made odd noises in his ears, made it hard to think. The heavy canvas of the package over his shoulder kept thudding into his back. His gauntlets were encrusted with frost. So were his boots. So was the rope, actually.

And the mountainside he was climbing was basically a vertical cliff. The rope actually hung a little bit away from the rock face at points. The wind was making him sway from side to side, and he couldn't brace himself properly. If he slipped, there would be nothing but air between him and the ground below.

Maybe, in some past life, this all would have made him a little nervous, but he already knew he would make it to the top. He felt nothing.

Besides, he didn't exactly have all night to cling to this rope.

When the Nord got within arm's reach of the grappling hook at the top, he unslung the package from his shoulder and heaved it up over the edge of the cliff above him. He pulled himself up after it, made it securely onto all fours on the rough stone ledge, and only then did he look down behind him.

The ground was dizzyingly far away. He could see for miles up here, it felt like. He'd only ascended a fraction of the mountain, there was a lot more above him, but the drop must have been nearly a hundred feet. This armor was heavy dwarven plate, but it would do nothing to protect him if he fell.

He closed his eyes, steadied himself, took a breath. He still didn't have all night. It was time to move.

The first thing he did was pull up the rope after himself. He left the hook where it had fixed itself against the rock, it wasn't hurting anyone there, but the rope went in a nice big coil. The next thing he did was unbuckle the straps holding the package closed, and unroll it on the flattest surface of stone he could find.

The sheet of canvas was treated with something that made it a dark, dull tone of gray. It blended in oddly well with the rock. It looked like the only thing in front of him was an array of golden metal components. Some large, some small, mostly long and slender, but for three cylinders of metal, one light, two heavy. Immediately, he started plucking them from their spots, fixing them together, tightening screws, assembling the apparatus they were meant to form.

Thorald heard something. It was hard to discern, against the gentle rush of the wind. Voices, it sounded like. He looked down off the cliff again.

This portion of mountainside was directly over a road. On one side, it traveled into a winding mountain pass, and on the other, it led to an open field of snow and ice. On the open field side, Thorald could just barely see the silhouettes of a line of men. Maybe fifteen or twenty, moving in single file, coming his way. Against the gray-lavender color of the nighttime snow, they all appeared solid black.

Thorald returned to his work. He had to finish his assembly, and fast. The lighter cylinder went on one side of the main body, the heavier two on the other. On one end was two pairs of metal arms, one pair curved, one pair straight. It was coming together very quickly.

When it was finished, he set the apparatus down on the bare rock, heavy cylinders facing down. He laid himself down on his belly behind it. The padding of his armor staved off the worst of the cold, but lying flat on frozen stone… He ignored it and just got settled as best as he could, resting on his elbows, peering down below.

Those silhouettes were a little closer now. This was as good a time as any, he supposed. Thorald braced the bipod-mounted automatic crossbow against his shoulder, took hold of its grip, and peered through the telescopic sight on top.

Thorald was looking at a small circle in his field of vision, magnified many times over. A cross of wire over the lens showed him where exactly his weapon was pointing. He'd never had the chance to use this device in the field before. Maybe this should've been exciting, but still, he felt nothing. He had a job to do.

Looking through this aperture, the tiniest motion of his arm, even the natural movement of his breathing, was enough to make his whole field of vision jiggle around. Without the bipod, it probably would have been impossible to aim. Slowly, as carefully as he could, he panned up the road.

It turned out those all-black silhouettes were actually black in color. Every one of them was wearing Thalmor robes. He could count them properly now. Sixteen Thalmor mages, traveling on foot up this barren road. But even through this metal tube, they looked far away. They only took up a tiny fraction of the sight's circular space. Thorald guessed they were maybe three or four hundred feet away from the base of his cliff.

In other words, they were outside his effective range. He'd just have to wait.

Now that he was holding still, the cold was starting to creep in through his armor. He shifted around slowly where he lay, struggling to keep his sights on the mages. Might as well see what they were doing, while he waited.

By the looks of things, the mages were just walking. They were all wearing hoods, but the one in front looked to be a man, just by his stature. He kept turning over his shoulder while he walked, and the ones just behind kept nodding and making gestures. He could hear their voices again now, still faintly. The one in front made a big, sweeping motion with his arms, and he could hear them laughing.

Thorald didn't care. They were all targets. And they were all coming within range. With his thumb, he pushed down a button on the handle, and a gear train powered by a dwarven dynamo core, inside one of the two heavy cylinders, pulled the bowstring back by itself. The other cylinder was full of solid metal bolts, and loaded one into place, also by itself.

He trained his sights on the mage in front. Not actually directly on him, of course. The wind was gently pushing left, and this was still a great distance, so the center of his wire cross was a bit to the target's upper right. They were still walking, still moving, so he carefully followed the mage's movement… Took a deep breath in, let it back out halfway…

When he pulled the trigger, the butt of the crossbow kicked hard against his shoulder, but there was no sound. His boots were enchanted with the muffle effect. It muted not just his movement, but his weapons as well. He simply felt the kick, immediately pressed the loader button, and watched as one of the mages farther back in the line suddenly fell over, clutching his lower leg.

That was wrong. That elf had been way off to the left. Thorald must have misaligned the sight just now. Should have tested it first, or something. He frowned and tried to adjust his aim accordingly, so… Pointing way to the right, basically.

The mages started scattering apart and casting armor spells on themselves. For all the good that would do them, of course. The one in front was shouting, it could be heard even up here, and pointing at people, and doing what a leader was expected to do. Thorald pulled the trigger again.

The one in front clutched at his throat for a couple of seconds, then collapsed. It reminded Thorald faintly of his interrogator in Northwatch, the one Idolaf Battle-Born had taken care of.

They still hadn't figured out who was attacking them. A couple were conjuring atronachs on the spot. Thorald ignored those. They'd vanish with the deaths of their summoners anyway.

This crossbow reloaded itself in something like half a second. Thorald had never experienced anything like this. He'd aim at someone, or to their upper-right, technically, pull the trigger, and move on to the next. Of course, he'd had plenty of time to practice. They wouldn't have sent him on this assignment if he couldn't handle it. But taking on all these mages with this weapon? They didn't stand a chance.

He took one mage down, and then the next, and then the next. They were running, now. All in different directions, trying to just be less of a target. Thorald followed them patiently. Some were running in erratic zigzags, trying to dodge him. He even missed a couple of times, thanks to that. But he simply kept launching bolt after bolt, and the Thalmor mages fell one by one. None of them even tried fighting back.

Soon enough, there was only one mage left. He was hiding behind a hulking frost atronach, slowly advancing towards the mountain pass, careful not to expose any of himself to Thorald's line of sight. If he got close enough, he'd be able to retaliate, and Thorald wasn't eager to find out how. Against someone with a normal weapon, this would have worked just fine. Thorald could attack the atronach, and probably destroy it, but the mage could simply summon another before he could reload his crossbow.

Unfortunately, Thorald's crossbow was built to load itself, and faster than any pair of hands ever could. He aimed for the atronach and started simply letting off bolts.

The atronach crumbled after the third impact. Sure enough, the mage instantly summoned another. A huge, purple, swirling orb of energy blossomed on the ice, obscuring the mage from view. When it shrank away again, there would be another atronachs, fresh from Oblivion, just like the last.

Thorald's fourth bolt went straight through the orb. The spell ended early. That big purple orb collapsed into nothing. There was just a dead mage lying flat on the ice.

He lifted his head from the sight, looked down there with both eyes. He counted sixteen silhouettes scattered across the ground. Sixteen Thalmor corpses. That was it, then. His mission was done.

As he set to work taking the device apart, putting the pieces back into their package, Thorald wondered what he was meant to feel about this. He'd just killed a whole lot of unsuspecting people. Thalmor mages, yes, and undoubtedly the enemy, but they hadn't even had a chance. He wasn't sure he really liked it that way.

But this was a war. Thorald was a soldier. He had a job to do. Maybe it was best to simply keep feeling nothing.


	3. Eredra 1

Loredas, 2:15 PM, 28th of Sun's Dawn, 4E 202

Whiterun

When Eredra thought of trade hubs, she thought of the noise and chaos of commerce. Sprawling open marketplaces, street merchants aggressively peddling their wares, crowds of customers shouting over each other as they bartered over sundry goods. This was how any center of trade ended up looking.

And then there was Whiterun. The elf sat on a comfortable wooden bench beneath the branches of the Gildergreen, shielded from the sun by its radiant pink leaves. A wide, shallow channel of water coming down from Dragonsreach split into a neat circle around the orchard, bridged by gentle wood arches on all sides. Passersby walked through now and then, but they were quiet enough.

The amusing part was, this wasn't some obscure little garden off to the side. This was truly the heart of the city. And while it likely didn't imply great things in terms of economy, it was peaceful here. Besides that priest standing by the stairs up to Dragonsreach. He'd been screaming about the glory of Talos for hours.

"I'd like to kill him," the Nord next to her said.

Eredra chuckled. "You and many. He's an icon, isn't he? Of Talos worship, I mean."

"Exactly. He gives us a bad name. Well… Us. I don't know if…" The Nord trailed off and gestured vaguely in her direction.

"The Bosmer don't want any part in that all. But if you'd like me to give you some poison for him, I could arrange that."

Eredra was a slender specimen, deeply bronzed of skin, with a short, wiry, reddish head of hair. Like many of her kind, she had a sort of timeless look of adulthood about her. She could have been twenty-five, or ninety-five. It wouldn't show.

The Nord next to her, on the other hand, was as close as one could get to being her opposite. His skin was almost unnaturally pale, his hair flowed in deep, dark waves down his shoulders, he sported a fledgling beard, and his age was plainly starting to get the better of him. The only thing they both had in common was that their clothes were very boring. Eredra was fairly certain her robe was made out of the fabric they used for sacks of flour.

"I don't care about the preacher." The Nord turned his head to the right, away from where the elf sat. Where he looked, beyond the channel, there was a stone staircase up to a truly bizarre wooden building. Its roof appeared to be fashioned from an enormous boat's overturned hull.

Eredra peered past him. "Jorrvaskr."

"The den of the beasts," the Nord spat. "There are less than twenty of us now, you know. They slaughtered most everyone in Driftshade."

As Eredra understood it, Driftshade Refuge had once been the main stronghold of the Silver Hand. It was just some old ruin of a fort up in the Pale. And according to her sources, the Companions had attacked it almost two months ago. The finest warriors in Skyrim versus a band of werewolf hunters. It went how one would expect.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"I could go up there right now, walk inside… You know, they don't even lock their doors. They're just that full of themselves."

"Well, they're right. You could go in there with a hundred men at your back, and they'd end up disposing of a hundred corpses."

The Nord turned back to her. His face had set in a stony scowl. "We did kill their last Harbinger, you know. We can do it again."

"And you'd have my blessing. Werewolves…" She returned the expression. "They're a blight on all things natural. You know how my people are about nature."

"Is that really your problem with them?" The Nord's scowl deepened. "That they're just unnatural?"

"Would it not be enough of a reason?"

"I know not. Most of my peers have lost someone to a werewolf, at some point. I mean, before joining us. The rest are… Just rather strong in their feelings, I suppose. I lost my father, for what it's worth." His tone actually lost its edge when he came to talk about his personal loss. The indifference struck Eredra as being a little eerie.

"I'm sorry again," she said.

"Yes, well." The Nord shrugged.

"I lost this."

And then she raised her left arm. The sleeve of her robe fell to gather up at her elbow. Where her hand should have been, there was nothing but air. Her wrist ended with pink streaks of scar tissue.

The Nord stared wordlessly.

"Courtesy of a very unnatural creature," Eredra said. She lowered her arm and gave it a flick to bring the sleeve back up.

After that, the Nord composed himself quickly. "I trust your desires are in the right place, then. Hatred of the unnatural only brings a person so far. To truly understand these beasts..."

Eredra leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. In the background, the preacher was still raving about love or something. "I meant to ask about that, actually. Do you trust me?"

The Nord joined her in the leaning posture. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial register. "As much as I can afford to. I suppose that's a lot. I haven't much to lose at this point, have I?"

"That's not much of an answer." Eredra raised an eyebrow at him. "No matter, I suppose. I'm going to give you the same thing no matter what."

"Which is?"

In response, the elf pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jacket and handed it over.

The Nord flipped it around a couple times in his fingers before stowing it away. "What exactly is this for?"

"Proof that I trust you too," she said. "I need you to get that back to your leaders. It's for their eyes only. I promise, you'll get the strength you need to take them on."

"I'll get this back to them, you have my word." The Nord nodded resolutely. "Is there anything else?"

She offered him a gentle smile, and a shake of the head. "You know what to do."

And so the Nord headed off. He would go back down to the gates, head to the stable, and take his horse back to… Wherever the last of his associates were hiding. It mattered little. The important thing was that everything had gone smoothly.

Eredra stood up and stretched out her arms. Wearing all this wood elf makeup was so annoying. She was actually looking forward to getting back into the robes of her uniform.


	4. Odahviing 1

Middas, 5:51 PM, 11th of First Seed, 4E 202

The Throat of the World

This mountaintop didn't feel like a real place. Odahviing had no better way to describe it. He came here now and then to visit Paarthurnax, and whenever he did, the rules of the world ceased to be. Nothing was off-limits, nothing was taboo. There was no need for him to defend his power, because his power meant so little here.

In a way, he had come to look forward to visiting this place, and dread it at the same time.

He came to land on the mountain peak directly before where Paarthurnax perched. Viewing this dragon up close was perfect proof of their race's immortality. His scales were weathered, his eyes pale, his wings tattered, his horns broken in places. Yet not only was he very much alive, he was the most powerful dragon in Tamriel. As though that mattered here.

"_Greetings, Odahviing."_

At least Paarthurnax wasn't still demanding an exchange of Thu'ums. _"Yes, greetings. What news?"_

"_Nosqoriik has traveled to Solitude. We need to begin coordinating with the Legion. They would benefit from seeing what our eyes see."_

Odahviing settled down on the snow. It was a clear evening, and the sunset made a pleasant backdrop to look upon as they spoke. _"I thought the Legion was full of spies for the Thalmor."_

The ancient dragon quickly joined him in looking out into the distance. _"Nosqoriik is conferring personally with the Imperial general. I believe his name is Tullius."_

"_You've been on this mountain for thousands of years. Aren't you bored of the same sunset?"_

"_Every sunset only comes once, Odahviing." _Wise as always. Paarthurnax never failed.

"_Wasn't Nosqoriik the one to aid you in rescuing Solitude earlier?"_

"_Yes, he was. I'm glad your immortal memory can keep track of the last few months."_

"_Being petty is no way to cope with the fact that you had to spend an eternity up here by yourself and I did not."_

Paarthurnax snorted with amusement.

For a time, they sat in silence, watching the few clouds in the sky swirling about at their glacial pace. Perhaps this was an opportunity to meditate. Paarthurnax would have plenty of practice with that.

Eventually, Odahviing spoke. He couldn't help himself. Maybe that was the idea. _"Do you think me to be reckless?"_

Paarthurnax actually turned and looked at him._ "What?"_

"_You chose me for the Dragonborn to summon and capture. What was your logic in that choice?"_

"_I knew you would respond to his challenge. Can you imagine turning it down?"_

Ever since Paarthurnax started with that whole empathy thing, he had become far more persuasive. Normally, dragons resolved their differences with what amounted to Thu'um contests. It wasn't normal for them to convince each other to think differently.

"_You're cheating me of my anger. Can't I at least be a little annoyed by it?"_

"_Yes, but you did ask what my logic was."_

"_I didn't like how that went. It was… Humiliating. I can only imagine how it must have been for Numinex."_

"_I remember him."_ Of course he did. He'd been the one to put that poor creature out of his misery.

"_When I…"_ Odahviing stopped. He needed to collect his thoughts. _"I knew that the Dragonborn must have had something waiting for me. But when I… Felt the iron collar close around my neck… I realized I'd been made a fool of. He was standing right on the porch of Dragonsreach."_

"_You did meet his challenge, without cowardice. That is more than I can say for my brother, you realize."_

"_I met his challenge with stupidity. I wanted to defeat him. I knew it was a trap. I wanted him to try to capture me, and to overpower him anyway. I suppose you know me too well to let that happen."_

Paarthurnax said nothing. A few seconds went by. Odahviing needed to compose his ideas again.

"_And when I felt that collar close around me, I realized that he'd planned for me to… Be like I am. And I was his prisoner, and I had myself to blame, only myself. And… And that was how Numinex felt. But no one set him free."_

Odahviing laid his head down on the snow. This was how the Throat of the World worked. He spoke his thoughts, and for some reason, he didn't have to pay for his foolish honesty. Even if his thoughts were full of pain.

"_It ended well for you, did it not? We are allies of the Dragonborn's. Allies, not subordinates."_

"_I don't think he likes me."_

Paarthurnax just looked at him again.

"_I did throw a guard off the porch in front of him."_

"_And we both killed thousands of Nords under Alduin's leadership. He hasn't held it against me."_

"_He's… Strange, then."_

More time went by in silence. The sun was starting to meet the horizon. The sky was flooded with a blooming haze of orange and pink. It was a curious thing. Dragons were meant to consider themselves the pinnacle of being. Immortal creatures, aspects of Time itself, meant to rule over all they saw. But sometimes, for just a moment, it occurred to Odahviing how small he was. How small they all were. In a world so vast, how could anyone make a difference?

He was starting to think like Paarthurnax. This was infectious. He had to cut that out.

Eventually, he picked himself up off the ground, shook the snow off his chin, looked over at Paarthurnax._ "I'm not a fool."_

The elder dragon didn't deign to answer that one.

"_Success comes from action, not contemplation. I visit you on this mountaintop, but I would rather lose my life than spend all of my time… Thinking."_

"_It does seem to help with understanding the truth of things."_

"_Yes, of course. For whatever good that does. I have never had the patience for that. It is such a waste. What is the truth, when we do nothing with it? When we simply sit and wait?"_

"_Do you want to take a more active posture in the war?"_

"_Am I the only one of our kind to observe the practical effects of things? The Dragonborn has replaced Alduin as our leader. And he has spread a message of… Love, in essence, among our ranks, which must be nice for him. I suppose that's all we have, now. Alduin is gone. There is no force remaining in the world which can raise us from bodily death. We used to rule Skyrim, and now we have been demoted to… Reconnaissance. We live in fear."_

"_That we do. It is the price we have paid for allowing the world to be saved. In a sense, we have become mortal. We can no longer afford to fight among our own ranks. The number of dragons in the world can only go down."_

And Paarthurnax was right. Odahviing had suffered bodily death more than once during the Dragon War. It meant little. Each time, once Alduin had arrived, he been able to restore Odahviing's body in seconds. That would never happen again. Odahviing's next death would be his last.

"_When I came to the porch in Dragonsreach, the Dragonborn struck me with a Thu'um I had never encountered before. Do you know what I speak of?"_

"_Yes. Dragonrend."_

"_Have you ever experienced its effect?"_

Paarthurnax made an indifferent sound. _"I do not know why I would have. For as long as mortals have known Dragonrend, I have been on their side."_

"_I have no true memory of what I felt when the Thu'um struck me. All I remember is that it was the worst thing I had ever experienced. Being forced to comprehend mortality… In hindsight, I genuinely cannot."_

"_I hope you do not resent the Dragonborn for using it upon you."_

"_No, not especially. It made sense. But…"_

Odahviing paused.

"_I have become nothing more than the bones and blood and scales that I control. And if too much of that blood is spilt, if this crude physical form's function is disrupted too greatly, my story will end. I think this was what Dragonrend was meant to show me. Someday, I know not how, I will no longer be able to experience the world. I will cease to be. And it will happen because this fragile assembly of flesh and bone will fail me."_

Paarthurnax said nothing. Time went by.

"_I have never had the patience for sitting and contemplating the world. This much is plainly known. But… Now more than ever, it feels… It feels as though that truly does not matter. Our world has changed. There is no ruler to ensure our immortality. There is no promise of eternal being. We have been reduced to struggling to keep these ancient bodies of ours from falling apart._

"_And I was thinking… When I attacked the Thalmor mages at Labyrinthian, I did it alongside Vuljotnaak. And he did not survive their counterattack. I came close to suffering the same fate. And I thought little of it at the time, but I am realizing… Vuljotnaak will never see a sunset again. He will never again show the world his Thu'um. He will never be here to speak to us about philosophy, or about anything. And this is because circumstances happened to punish his body too greatly. And this will eventually happen to me, and to you._

"_How is philosophy supposed to matter anymore? How is our power supposed to matter? It won't be enough. I knew that the Dragonborn had something waiting for me on that porch. I didn't know it would be that Thu'um. And I remember the feeling of the collar on my neck, but I don't remember how Dragonrend felt. It was created to paralyze us with the nightmare of mortality. And I think it must have felt like this."_

Odahviing closed his eyes. _"Paarthurnax, we are living in a nightmare."_

**Thank you guys so much for your feedback! I'm glad you don't see my reaction when I get notified that I have new reviews. It's very undignified. I hope the coming material lives up to your expectations. You guys keep me writing, you deserve the best I can make for you.**


	5. Kamian 2

Middas, 11:01 AM, 18th of First Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

"_Wuld-nah-kest."_

Kamian loved his Thu'ums. He didn't even need a horse to travel, these days.

He'd been journeying across half of Skyrim for about three days solid. Walking, on foot. Except, every half minute or so, he'd go:

"_Wuld-nah-kest."_

And he'd zip a good hundred feet forward in a split second. It wasn't even particularly tiring. He was already in the province's northeastern corner. He'd gone from mountains to plains to ice to more mountains. Hjaalmarch, then the Pale, then… This part of Skyrim. Winterhold.

Winterhold was the name of the capital city here. This meant that the hold itself was named Winterhold Hold. What imbecile had named it that?

As a matter of fact, Kamian knew the answer. Winterhold had been founded during the First Era by Arch-Mage Shalidor, the same one to work on Labyrinthian. And what a splendid job he'd done on both counts.

At the very least, his destination was not the actual city of Winterhold.

It just so happened that in the last few months, another city had been established here. Kamian could not say that it had been founded, or built, or anything of the sort. According to his understanding, it had simply been repopulated. Not that anyone could tell. All Dwemer ruins were mostly underground.

By virtue of the mountainous terrain, Kamian wasn't treated to the sight of the Dwemer towers until he was perhaps half a mile away, and even then, they were black silhouettes in the haze of the snowy wind. They were also on the far side of a massive ravine.

This place was exceptionally defensible. The paths up the mountain were few and far between. The ravine must have been sixty or seventy feet wide. Kamian could barely even see the bottom. It was a sheer drop off a rocky cliff. In order to cross it, one would have to either go all the way down and back up, or build a bridge on the spot. Or…

"_Wuld-nah-kest."_

It was like cheating the rules of travel. He loved it.

From here, it was a perfectly flat surface of ice and rock towards the lift entrance. Kamian knew these when he saw them. Every Dwemer ruin he'd ever visited had had a lift straight from the surface down to the lower reaches. And by the looks of things, the doors for this one were already open.

These lifts had always rather perplexed him. The Dwemer had been a secretive, warlike people. They had built their cities deep underground specifically to defend against the Nords. But having a lift from the surface was like having an open road from outside the city walls.

Perhaps the Dwemer had some lost way of defending these points. Kamian was just starting to wonder about how they'd be defended now when he heard a voice directly behind him.

"Halt!"

And so Kamian did. He turned around to find a spectral figure, bright blue and glowing, standing perhaps ten or twelve paces away. His features were hidden behind a full suit of armor, and he was pointing a crossbow, also spectral, at Kamian's belly.

He didn't even draw his sword in response. He just stared. "… What are you?"

The figure inclined his head, but just kept talking. "What's a man like you doing with the power of the Voice?"

Kamian slowly folded his arms and sighed. "Coming to visit the Dragonborn. Do you mind?"

The spectral being lowered his weapon and shrugged. "No. A fellow like you, we probably couldn't stop you from going down anyway. We don't have the manpower."

The last that Kamian had heard, Alftand had housed something like ten thousand people. It was really a proper city down there. The entrance was not supposed to have _one _guard, and a spectral one at that. "Why not?"

"Haven't you heard? The Aldmeri Dominion attacked Alftand, about a month ago. We defeated them in the end, but nearly all of us died. I'm completely serious. The survivors are all in Blackreach."

"Oh… By the Nine. I am so sorry." Kamian looked down and scratched the back of his neck, as best he could with a helmet on. He was already deducing things about the spectral man, but something else stood out even more. "Did you say Blackreach?"

"The cave. Beneath Alftand. Boy, you've been out for a while, huh?"

As a matter of fact, Kamian had heard that name before. He hadn't realized Blackreach was _real_, but he'd heard of it. It figured that the Dragonborn would set up shop someplace like that. If it really was under Alftand, then this whole business of making Alftand itself into a city was pretty plainly a front.

"I need to speak to him. Immediately. Where I've been out, things have been going wrong."

The spectral being paused for a moment, then nodded in assent. "So be it. I'll take you to him. Not by this lift. There's another. Follow me." With that, he started walking off away from the lift entrance, just like that.

Kamian paused for a bit. He could tell he'd reached the Dragonborn's stronghold. Not because hurried to catch up. "You're not worried about leaving this one unattended?"

The man answered without turning around. "There are more of us up here. Didn't look like you saw _me_."

He seemed to be leading Kamian into the mountains, to the south. Kamian was pretty sure there wasn't anything in this direction, besides maybe an inn eventually.

After a minute or two of walking, he couldn't help himself. "So who are you?"

"A son of Skyrim," the spectral figure said, "who's not done fighting for the land he loves. There are quite a few of us. The elves unleashed some sort of spell that killed every last man, woman and child who hadn't made it into Blackreach in time. It seems they didn't kill us quite thoroughly enough."

"Well, that's strange." Not very, though. Kamian had encountered hundreds of ghosts during his time in Skyrim. The main thing he'd learned was that they fell to his sword just as easily as the living. And that the remains they left behind were awfully unappetizing.

"Aye, it is. I hope it's worth my time in Sovngarde being put off. Being returned to the world just to be on guard duty… There must be something more."

They trekked on in silence for a little while, through a brief mountain pass, until his spectral escort stopped in front of an icy hill. They were still high above most of Skyrim. From here, Kamian could see out over what he presumed was Eastmarch. It was like the usual expanse of ice and snow, but with a sizable lake in the distance.

The spectral guard laid his hand on the snowy hillside and mumbled a few words. And just like, the snow caved in. No, it didn't cave in, it _opened_. A door opened in the snow. There was a passage of ice in here, lit by an eerie ambient blue glow.

Kamian didn't need to be prompted. He headed right inside.

"Now I must return to my post," the guard said behind him. "Pull the lever when you're ready to head down."

"Got it."

And with that, the snowy wall restored itself. Kamian didn't turn to watch. He just started walking, even as the sunlight gave way to that strange glow.

Up ahead, there was a chamber of metal bars. The inside of a Dwemer lift entrance, in fact, set right in along the icy walls. So there was a secret lift that went straight down to Blackreach. He was going to have to ask about that snowy door. He'd never seen anything like it.

Still, he headed into the lift chamber like he normally would. There was a lever fixed to the middle of the stone platform, sure enough, and he gave it a gentle pull. Just like that, the chamber doors closed, and he was off.

Almost immediately, Kamian could tell that this was different. Every Dwemer lift he'd encountered had a very specific mechanical formula. The lift would accelerate to a constant speed, then slowly decelerate to minimize the shock of the final halt. But this lift was simply… Accelerating. Continually. Before long, the rock faces of the shaft, passing by behind the lift's cage walls, were pretty much a blur. Kamian felt oddly light on his feet.

There were two possible explanations. One was that the lift had suffered a mechanical failure and he was going to die. The other was that Blackreach was very, very deep underground. Kamian chose to believe the one he felt better about.

The entire time he'd been traveling here, Kamian's thoughts had been on his voice. They'd had to be. He had essentially spent the entire journey in a constant state of meditation. This encounter with the ghostly guard had only distracted him further. But now that he was alone, with his own thoughts, with nothing else to do, it finally hit him. He was about to see his brother again.

It had been too long. Far, far too long. Kamian had left for Skyrim well before this business with the dragons had begun. Even once it had, and once the Dragonborn became known to the world, Kamian had made no effort to seek his brother out. He'd wanted to, he'd simply been… For lack of a better term, busy. He'd had a quest of his own to follow.

And now that quest had brought him here. He'd spent this whole time alone, essentially. Avoiding cities, avoiding travelers, living off the land. Very few people even knew of his existence, which was just fine. But when he'd left his brother to travel to Skyrim, he'd left the only person he ever cared to spend his time around.

In hindsight, that might not have been a terrific idea. It had been too long. Not just for him, he imagined, but his brother. He could have come here any time he liked, but he'd waited until now. He rather expected he'd get smacked for that one.

Kamian hadn't even reached the bottom of the shaft yet, and he was already getting that awful sinking feeling that came with being faced with one's secrets. He just tried to control his breathing.

Despite the lift platform seemingly dropping downward like a rock, it was a few minutes before it even started to slow down. Kamian had neglected to estimate the lift's exact speed, but just going by how long this ride had been, the exit in Blackreach must have been about… three…. million feet deep. Close enough.

When the lift finally did stop, and the doors swung open, Kamian was free to step out into an alien world. There was no place, not in Mundus, not in Oblivion, not in his own imagination, that could have prepared him for this.

He'd always sort of assumed Blackreach would be a massive city, like Alftand itself. He was wrong. Blackreach was a massive _cavern_. It was sheer black in some places, lit up bright blue in others, glowing blindingly bright white in others still. The cavern ceiling, high above him, twinkled with a multitude of tiny blue lights, as though it were the sky itself. The cavern floor extended off into the haze of a strange bluish fog. The air here was hot, humid and foreign-smelling. This whole place was overwhelming to even look at.

But the main thing that stood out to him was the mushrooms. Throughout Skyrim, glowing mushrooms were known to grow in caves of certain climates, typically in the presence of the Falmer. They were a strange, metallic cyan fungus, the cap usually just big enough to fit in Kamian's hand, and sporting long, bright tendrils hanging all around from the rim. Blackreach appeared to host the same sort of mushroom, except the ones here were _enormous_. They were taller than he was.

There was a path leading forwards, running along the cavern wall to its right. Shortly ahead, there were two structures, one on either side of the path. On the right, there was an elevated area with a pair of solid metal doors set in the wall. On the left, there was a peculiar freestanding Dwemer building. It was just a boring box shape, but behind it was the source of that blinding brightness.

As Kamian walked forwards, he slowly realized he was looking at a field of hundreds of nirnroots. Their collective chiming sound was actually a bit haunting. Yes, the Dragonborn had been here.

"Hey!" A voice called out behind him.

Kamian turned to see a man… No, not a man, a Dunmer, wearing priest robes, standing just off the path. How had he not seen that fellow?

"Uh… Hello! Is the Dragonborn down here?" There was probably a better way to ask that, but he was still suffering from some horrible sensory overload.

"He's just by." This fellow had quite the accent. It was hard to place. He started walking right by Kamian, towards the buildings up ahead. "What should I tell him?"

"You can tell him the Ebony Warrior's come to see him."

The priest stopped to give him a strange look, then nodded and kept going. "It'll just be a moment. Wait here, please."

Kamian headed back and sat down on the steps in front of the lift. There was this great big _block_ of gears and pipes and Dwemer sculptures in the middle. He had to sit just beside it.

Up ahead, the priest was heading into that building in front of the nirnroots. So the Dragonborn was right there? Really? Just a stone's throw away from where Kamian sat. He thought he'd have to go across half the cavern, or something.

But no, instead he just had to wait for a minute or so. This was becoming unbearable. First ghostly guards, then a secret lift, then a truly surreal underground space. It wasn't that these things particularly bothered him, really. It was more that meeting his brother once again really didn't do well with all this build-up. It just put him on edge.

No matter. Everything would be resolved, one way or another, soon enough. Kamian took a deep breath. He'd be just fine.

Then the doors opened again. He stood up without thinking about it. Out came a figure he didn't recognize, clad head to toe in dwarven metal armor. The two of them stood and stared silently at each other for a split second.

A very familiar voice cried out, "By the Nine, it's actually you!"

Kamian's heart jumped into his throat. "Iseus!"

The next thing he knew, they were running straight at each other. It was more of a tackle than a hug. Kamian tried not to hit the little guy too hard. He didn't even know what was going on. He was laughing, and sort of crying a little too, and Iseus seemed to be the same. And they both had all their armor on, and Kamian was holding a helmeted head against his breastplate, and there was a pair of arms around his waist, but it barely felt like it was there through all the plate armor… And it didn't even matter. This was his brother in there. This was his brother! Right in his arms! Thank the gods to infinity.

He didn't even know how long they stood like that. Eventually, once he'd calmed down a bit, Iseus pulled away and looked up at him.

"Where have you _been_?" There was no anger in the question. Anguish, maybe. Kamian would've preferred anger.

"Uh… Killing every single dragon priest I can find in Skyrim. How about you?"

"Dammit!" Iseus turned away and threw his arms downward. "I knew it would be a good reason!"

"You picked an impressive place to stay," Kamian offered mildly.

"Yeah, it's, uh…" He turned back around and shrugged. "What was I going to do, stay in Whiterun?"

There was a moment of pause. Iseus started to say something, then stopped. Kamian cleared his throat.

"I'm… Really, really sorry I haven't stopped by you any sooner." What was he going to do, avoid that topic entirely? There wasn't even anything else to say.

"No, it's all right. I understand. Really." Iseus lowered his head. For a moment, Kamian thought he was just being dejected, but then he pulled his helmet off. His hair had gotten a lot longer. All long and black and kind of shaggy. And when he lifted his head again, showed his face…

"Wow, you got older." That wasn't very good. He tried again. "You… Heh. You mature well."

Iseus grinned and shrugged once more. "People seem to like me. Here, can you take yours off? I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall here, and… I mean, like, not just because you're the size of a brick wall."

Kamian nodded and obligingly pulled off his own helmet in kind. Just by appearances, it was hard to think they were brothers. An Imperial father, a Redguard mother, and Iseus had just happened to get all the Imperial blood. Kamian's skin was almost as dark as his armor. He kept his hair cropped close to his scalp. If he tried to grow it out like Iseus seemed to be doing, it wouldn't look so good.

"Yeah, you look basically how I remember." Iseus sighed and wiped his face over with his gloved hand. "Uh… hmf… All right. Want to sit down? I imagine you've been on the road a while."

Kamian was used to walking around in his armor practically around the clock. He wasn't even slightly tired, he'd just been walking. Still, he'd feel awfully mean to reject that. "Sure. You want to go back in the building?"

"I suppose. I think Erandur is in there right now. The, uh… The Priest of Mara," Iseus said with a little point towards Kamian. "And J'zargo was in there, too. Might want to get 'em both out."

"J'zawhat who now?"

"My assistant," his brother nodded, and then immediately cracked up. "I'm sorry! He's, uh… Yeah, he's this Khajiit I picked up from the College of Winterhold, he's been helping with alchemy. The building's actually an alchemy lab kind of thing. At least, someone had been using it for that before us."

"Huh. Well, I'm, uh… I'm open to meeting new people. I mean, I just met a _ghost_ up there, I'm ready for anything."

Iseus turned again and started for the laboratory doors. Kamian followed along quietly. It didn't really matter to him whether they were indoors or out, seeing as outdoors down here was still sort of indoors, but… Not important. This was his brother's show.

Kamian just watched as the guy poked his head in through the doors and said, "My brother and I need the lab. Would you two mind?"

Some stuff shuffled around in there audibly, and the priest edged by Iseus out the doors. A young Khajiit in light worker's clothing followed him out. When the Khajiit saw Kamian standing there, he stopped in his tracks.

"So, you're the Dragonborn's brother," the Khajiit murmured. "J'zargo has heard much about you."

"Really?" Kamian glanced to Iseus, who just shrugged.

J'zargo chuckled. "No, not that much, merely that you exist. Do try to treat my employer nicely. He suffers from far too little caring company."

With that, he and the priest excused themselves, leaving Kamian to try to decipher that last remark. Iseus beckoned him inside.

This space looked thoroughly lived in. With the doors closed behind him, that haunting ringing sound from the nirnroots was mercifully muted. There was a bed, a smoldering fireplace, an alchemy lab, an enchanting table… Rows and rows of shelves full of earthen bottles, drawers labeled with names of ingredients… An impressive setup, considering how tiny the structure was.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Iseus immediately set about taking his armor off. "I'd go with offering tea-or-something-stronger, but I don't _have_ anything stronger."

"Sure, thanks." Kamian sat down on the nearest chair. He hadn't been walking long or hard enough to enjoy the relief on his legs. Sort of disappointing.

It turned out that beneath the armor, Iseus had essentially an identical outfit to what J'zargo had been wearing. The moment he'd stowed it all away, he set about filling a dwarven metal kettle from a spigot above a basin mounted on the wall. Kamian hadn't even noticed that.

"What _is_ that?" He pointed in Iseus' general direction.

Iseus looked at him, than down at his kettle, then back up at him. "Uh… This is a faucet. Blackreach is full of pumphouses. We've been enjoying the benefits of running water for a while now."

"Huh." Kamian nodded approvingly. He'd heard of things like that before, but today was just full of new things for him. Notably, mushrooms. He couldn't get over that. "Why'd you have all your armor on, anyway?"

When Iseus had finished filling the kettle, rather than hang it over the fire, he just held it in one hand, and with the other, started bathing it from beneath with a jet of flame. He was using destruction magic to boil water for tea. "I wasn't sure if it was actually going to be you. Aren't you overheated in that?"

"No, I have a fire resistance enchant on a ring. And enchants for frost and shock, of course." Kamian hadn't felt particularly cold out there on top of the mountain, either.

"Smart." Iseus held up his right hand when he was done spraying fire out of it. There was a dwarven metal ring on his index finger. "Great minds think alike, or something."

"Great minds think greatly. Like minds think alike."

"Fair enough." Iseus appeared to already have a teapot waiting, with an infuser in it and everything. He just poured the water right in, then sat down by Kamian, across the fireplace from him. "It's really good to see you. I… I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but why now? Why not any earlier, or later?"

Kamian couldn't help but smile. He'd almost forgotten what it was like talking to this man. "You know how I mentioned I was out killing dragon priests?"

"Yep."

"There are eight in Skyrim. I've managed to kill seven. One of them was actually in Skuldafn. Do you remember the portal to Sovngarde?"

Iseus raised his eyebrows. "You've been to Skuldafn?"

"Do you remember how there was a staff just laying there right in front of it?"

"Not really. Uh…" He leaned back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe? I think so. I remember I had to plug a staff in, or something. I don't really remember where I got it."

"It used to be in the custody of a dragon priest. I kept the mask, I left the staff. Figured you'd need it for Alduin."

"Nice of you. So what about that eighth dragon priest?"

"You'll never guess where the eighth was."

Iseus stared at Kamian for a few long seconds. He just stared, no expression, no nothing. "… Don't say Labyrinthian."

Kamian pressed his lips flat together and returned the stare.

"And that's why you're here."

"Yep."

A few more seconds of staring. "… Shit!"

"Yep. Came straight here."

Iseus smacked the heel of his hand into his forehead. "The Thalmor opened it. They took the Torc off one of my men."

"It gets worse. Do you know what I found there?"

Iseus got back up and headed over to the teapot on its table. At least he hadn't forgotten about that. "A thousand dead bodies?"

"Worse."

He was pouring the kettle's contents into a couple of ceramic mugs now. "Two thousand dead bodies?"

When Iseus turned back around, Kamian was holding up the left half of a wooden mask. The other half had been messily snapped off.

"Is this supposed to mean something to me?" Iseus handed him one of the mugs as he sat back down.

"Thanks," Kamian said automatically, then took a sip. Surprisingly good stuff. He'd never had much of a taste for hot beverages, but still. Maybe it was because his brother had made it. "Ready for a little story?"

Iseus gestured towards him obligingly. "Go ahead."

Kamian had never told this to anyone before. He took a moment, to assemble his thoughts. And a deep breath.

"A very long time ago, before the Dragon War, the dragon priests were the rulers of Skyrim. You know, the big guys with the special masks. By the time of the war's end, there were eight of them, but I think there were originally nine. And the ninth was a damn good dragon priest. I think he sort of led the other eight. His name was Konahrik. He was more powerful than all of them combined. The dragons made his mask special. It didn't work the way the other eight worked. A completely different level of power.

"But these dragon priests, they were just chronically arrogant, all of them. They got into their positions of power by loving to dominate everyone, it's not exactly a mystery. So Konahrik, one day, he decided being the ultimate servant of the dragons wasn't good enough. And so he turned against them. He did… More damage than any mortal had any right to do, really. He would've been able to slaughter any dragon that came his way, except for Alduin. You already know he was unkillable in our world. It was just as true back then.

"And unfortunately for Konahrik, he _wasn't_ unkillable. Alduin destroyed him. And he didn't just destroy the guy's body, he destroyed everything about him. He destroyed the guy's legacy. Any mention of him, in any archive, anywhere, was expunged. He probably made it punishable by death to say Konahrik's name. And as far as I can tell, for the most part, that worked. I didn't know about Konahrik's existence at all until I visited Labyrinthian.

"I'd wanted to kill Morokei, he was next in line, but it turned out the door was sealed shut. Couldn't even get into the ruin. The only thing I could get to was this little structure outside in the courtyard. There was hardly anything in it when I found it, just a bunch of rocks, a shrine and a wooden mask.

"The dragon priests were smart. What were they going to do, let Konahrik's super-powerful mask go to waste? No, they held onto it. They wouldn't leave it in any one priest's custody, that would be extremely stupid. And if they just put it in some vault someplace, it'd be discovered. Probably by the dragons. So instead, the dragon priests built a shrine, with life-size busts of all eight of their likenesses, and an impenetrable container in the center of it all. It was perfect. They all had to remove their masks to open the container, so Konahrik's mask would only be accessible with their unanimous consent. But they still had to hide it from the dragons. If they were caught holding onto a secret weapon… Woe to them.

"So they made a _tenth_ mask. It had the shape of a dragon priest mask, of course, but it was completely, utterly unremarkable. It was made out of wood, not metal. It didn't even have a name. But it had an enchantment I've never seen anyplace else. If you put the mask on, in front of that shrine, you'd teleport to… It's like a tiny plane of existence. The same shrine, but isolated from time. That's where they stored Konahrik's mask. And obviously, dragons can't put on masks made for men to wear, so… They'd never find it.

"I killed seven dragon priests, and hid their masks all in separate places of protection across Skyrim. The wooden mask, I kept on my person. I would've preferred to get Konahrik's mask out of there, but seven out of eight masks, not good enough. I only even learned about the mask from some stone tablets I found in that little secret shrine place. To be honest, I don't know what the mask looks like.

"Anyway, uh… Last week, I was traveling through the Pale, when the wooden mask just vanished. One second, it was in my backpack, and the next second, it wasn't. And when I went to Labyrinthian to check on the shrine, I found this."

Kamian held up the broken half of the mask.

By this point, Iseus had completely drained his mug of tea. He set it on the table behind him, then leaned forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. "The other seven masks, in their places of protection…"

"Didn't bother to check. Either Morokei could summon them like the wooden mask, or he could just locate them via his own magic."

Iseus nodded for a few seconds, then stood up. "Enjoy your tea. I have some letters to write."

"To whom?" Kamian's tea had cooled down quite a lot. He emptied his own mug inside ten seconds. "Anyone I know?"

"Maybe." Iseus was already sitting down at the table with some paper and a quill pen.

"Well, now you know why I came here."

"Yeah, I didn't think it'd just be for the tea," he muttered while writing the first line.

"Oh, you just reminded me. Why are there a thousand nirnroots out back?"

"There's a subspecies of nirnroot, it has these blood-red leaves and stuff, that grows only in Blackreach, but it grows way easier than the normal kind. And it turns out that nirnroots amplify any magic in the area, so I just planted all of the nirnroots I possibly could, and they make all my enchantments stronger. And my potions, of course. We do so much alchemy. And—" He paused. "Dammit. I just wrote 'Labyrinthian has been potion'."

He crumpled the paper up, threw it into the fireplace, and laid down another piece with a scowl.

Kamian put his piece of mask away again, then found a flat surface to put the mug down on too. "There's a thousand more things I want to talk to you about, but first things first. I'm here now. What do you need me to do?"

"That…" Iseus put his quill down in its inkwell, and looked across the room at him. "Is an excellent question. As the second-strongest mortal in Skyrim, I feel like you'd be better-equipped to answer that than I."

"Actually, as of now, I'm pretty sure _I'm_ the second-strongest."

Iseus smiled, then slowly returned to his writing. "You flatter me."

"No, I don't. As of now, you're third."


	6. Aela 1

Sundas, 12:07 AM, 9th of First Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

Aela lived for the hunt. This was her place in life. Some were scholars, some were tradesmen, some were thieves, those were their places. She was a huntress. Roaming the plains by night, seeking out her prey, closing in for the kill, she felt truly alive.

Unfortunately, it was raining, so she was sitting indoors and talking philosophy instead. At least it was with some familiar faces. Most of the Companions had already gone to bed. Suited her fine.

Right then, Vilkas was going on about something or other. She was barely paying attention. Still, the man was sitting right next to her. Kind of hard to ignore.

And kind of hard to take seriously. He was like a little scrawny version of his brother. His armor never looked like it fit him right. And he seemed to like to keep his hair in that awkward stage of not-quite-shoulder-length. But still, he was the Harbinger of the Companions, these days, at least. Aela should probably have at least been trying to listen.

"…ultimately broader than simple things like war. Our entire province is diseased. Bandits, necromancers, the Forsworn—"

Farkas cut in. "The Forsworn are gone, brother."

They were all sitting in a row, on one side of the hearth. Simple

"True. But corruption comes at every turn. I never thought a member of the Thieves Guild would be welcome at our table."

This time, Brynjolf. "But that's how low you've sunk, then."

Aela was pretty sure that she was still the only one here to actually like that man. It was funny, too. When he'd first showed up at Jorrvaskr, Aela was the only one to want nothing to do with him. Things sure did like to change.

"No offense to your guild," Vilkas said. "Honor is just that hard to come by. Riften isn't what I'd call a, uh… Not exactly a beacon of honor. Wasn't that poor lady running the orphanage from there?"

"You mean Grelod the Kind?" Brynjolf laughed sharply. "Her?"

"Aye. I heard she was murdered by some kind of assassin. A few months ago, right?"

"You know, she wasn't actually kind, lad. She was murdered, that's true, but by one of the boys from her own orphanage. Came up to her in her sleep, and just… Stabbed her. A few dozen times, for good measure."

"By the Nine," Farkas murmured. "What became of the boy?"

"No one knows. But don't think it's an example of how sorry a state Riften is in. It's better off without that old hag, let me tell you."

Farkas chuckled a little. "I can believe that. Not everywhere in Skyrim can be as good a place to raise a child as Jorrvaskr."

"Well said, brother. This is one of the last bastions of Nordic honor, and what can we do? We-"

"Why do you have a Daedra heart?" Brynjolf cut him off.

Dead silence.

"On a plate outside your room. There's just a heart."

Vilkas stared at him. "… It's good for alchemy."

"You don't do alchemy."

"Athis does, I think," Farkas offered.

"You're missing the point, Brynjolf. The Companions of Whiterun have a duty to Skyrim, but we're simply not enough of a force. It would be a great day indeed if we were, but Skyrim's troubles are too great, and we have grown too weak."

Around this point, Aela figured she'd had enough of being quiet. She could only listen to the Harbinger go on about the limits of the Companions for so long. "Where's your warrior's spirit, Vilkas? You should be happy that there's so much glory to seek out. I thought I was the one who was all worked up about making a real difference out there."

"He's right, you know," said a voice behind them.

Aela twisted out of her seat. She'd already had quite a bit to drink. It took a little effort to not stumble. Beside her, the other three turned around as well.

A man in steel armor stood in the open doorway. The greatsword in his hands was made of dull, tarnished metal. Aela would've recognized it anywhere.

"You are too weak," he smirked.

"Oh. You." Farkas drew his own greatsword in kind. "I thought you were all dead."

"Far from it," the man said, and then, "Go!"

The other three doors all opened at once. People with swords and shields started pouring in. Some of them wore steel, some of them wore hide, some of them were Nords, some of them were elves. Some looked… Wrong. Their skin was all red. That didn't look like any race at all.

"Brynjolf, you may want to leave," Vilkas said, oddly calmly.

It was too late. They were already making a circle around the tables, cutting off any escape. Aela drew the sword at her side and sank into a fighting stance. "You're all very wise," she called out. "Picking the hall of the Companions as a place to die. An honorable end."

"Enough talk," the first man spat. He pointed his greatsword right at Vilkas, and started to close in.

Aela, Vilkas and Farkas were the best warriors Jorrvaskr had to offer, and accordingly, some of the best warriors in the world. But the reason they remained alive today was because they were not simply fighters, but shield-brothers. In combat, they were one being in three bodies. Their coordination was the one thing that set them apart from any other fighting force in Skyrim.

As for Brynjolf… He had his own way of doing things. He'd probably be fine.

In any case, things turned to chaos almost immediately. Vilkas dodged the first guy's swing, and did a throwing maneuver that sent him crashing over the tabletop and right onto the open flame of the hearth. After that, everyone else closed in.

Aela backed up to cover Vilkas' back. Every time someone got within reach of her sword, she lashed out, and never in a way they expected. If an enemy had their shield raised, Aela found a way around it. If they were coming in with swords raised high, they never managed to hit her. It was easy. One, after another, after another. They were bottlenecked between the table and the wall. She could manage this.

One of those strange red-skinned ones came up at her. Looked like he could've been a Nord, once. But Aela didn't get a chance to properly appraise him, because he was coming down at her with a huge steel axe. She jumped out of the way, checked the haft with her sword, the red man twisted his waist, locked her sword beneath the axe's head, pulled it down… Not good… Aela looked up at him. He looked back.

Then something happened. The man opened his mouth, made a strange gurgling sound, there was a flash of green, and then Aela couldn't see. Her face was covered in some kind of slime. The smell alone made her so sick she actually felt dizzy. And the slime, it was burning, stinging her skin, she could barely describe it.

Aela barely managed to shove the man away from her before falling on her knees. Her sword fell away from her. She wiped at her face, at her eyes, with her hands, only for those to start burning too.

There was a loud, wet crunch right above her. She looked up to see Farkas standing with blood all over his gauntlets. Next thing she knew, he'd grabbed a pitcher of water from the table and splashed it on her face.

"Get up," he growled, before pulling his greatsword out of some corpse. They were still coming.

Aela wiped her hands off on the floor and picked up her weapon. That smell was still all over her. It was like pure, acrid bile, but more _evil_. That was the best way she could think of it. "What…"

There was no time to talk. The very moment Aela stood back up, some idiot with a silver mace was leaping over his buddies' corpses to get at her. And ordinarily, this would've been a pathetic challenge, but Aela's stomach was in open rebellion. She was just standing there and gagging.

But the guy with the mace didn't seem to care, he was still coming, so Aela just backpedaled, and backpedaled, and almost tripped on something, and felt her back press up against a wall or something… Definitely not good.

She brought her sword up just in time to deflect the mace. It actually hit the wall. One of the flanges got stuck in the wood. The man started to pry it free, but he was too slow. Aela dragged her blade over the side of his neck. He went down fast.

Aela looked around the room. It looked like the fighting was coming to a close. It hadn't lasted long. This whole part of the mead hall was littered with corpses, and spattered with blood. And bright green slime. That stuff was everywhere. No wonder the smell was so awful in here.

Vilkas was going around and finishing off the ones whose first wounds hadn't taken. Farkas was standing over Brynjolf, who was slumped on the floor against the table, covered in that horrible green mess. They were talking, but Aela wasn't listening.

At this point, she should have been relishing the thrill of a fight well done, but instead, she felt like she was in a bit of a trance. Her nose was actually getting used to the noxious air, which sort of alarmed her.

Aela wandered over to the table and just leaned against it. That first guy with the greatsword was sprawled face-down on the hearth. His body was actually smoldering. She stared at it for a couple seconds, then turned and walked straight out the door, out into the rain, before she could make the mess in here any worse.

If this was what the Silver Hand looked like these days, something was truly wrong.


	7. Savos 1

Loredas, 3:32 PM, 21st of First Seed, 4E 202

College of Winterhold

Ever since the halcyon era of the Psijic Order's foundation, the arcane arts had been shrouded in a veil of mystery and secrecy, often enforced by its practitioners. The motives for this had, naturally, varied with the passage of time (and the identity of the mages in question, for the Psijics themselves were notorious absentees), but the essential effect was this: the common folk of Tamriel were free to come to their own conclusions about all things magical.

Perhaps, at a time, this had achieved some measure of reverence from the laity of the region. But this was not made to last. Secrecy bred mistrust, and mistrust bred worse things yet. And the Nords, for all their reputation of bellicosity, had demonstrated remarkable tolerance to the College of Winterhold. How might they be expected to react, when four-fifths of the town of Winterhold fell into the sea, and the college remained standing upon a literal pillar of rock?

In truth, it seemed likely enough that the only reason the remaining locals hadn't staged a retaliatory invasion of the college was their own fear. This was an institution of arcane magic, and the greatest of its kind in Skyrim; there were few worse places, they must have supposed, to mount any attack against. And despite that they were most painfully _right_, Savos Aren believed it better to let speculation take the place of demonstration. Magic had always been a secretive art, and now it was his turn to support that.

More interestingly, perhaps, was that this dearth of information had no apparent limits. For example, it was a common misconception, even so among the higher echelons of this very college, was that the Arch-Mage's purview began and ended alike in some rarefied realm, inaccessible to the everyday mage. Tolfdir took it upon himself to educate the apprentices; Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine supervised the daily affairs of the college as a whole; and only the Divines knew what the Arch-Mage devoted his time to.

This was little cause for worry; as it turned out, the longer Savos enjoyed his status as the doyen of the college, the more he understood why his predecessors had made so little of their activities known.

A popular line of thinking in the college was that the late general Ancano was the first and only spy the Thalmor had ever bothered sending here. The College of Winterhold, after all, had no business in the political battlefield. This line of thinking, however, withstood little scrutiny. In reality, Ancano could have been described as a decoy at best. Savos would have been deluded to believe that there was not a single informant to the Aldmeri Dominion somewhere in his institution.

Rather than attempt to expunge every trace of subterfuge from the college, which would have aroused yet more suspicion, Savos simply allowed the image of his mystery to perpetuate itself. It sufficed to keep his affairs generally hidden. Unfortunately, though perhaps predictably, this did not appease everybody.

And so before him, in his own quarters no less, stood Tolfdir, wearing a look of true inquietude.

"Learning is a priority of ours, but safety even more so," said the old mage. "And I might not be able to stop some of my colleagues from putting themselves in harm's way, but summoning unbound dremora, that poses a danger to all of us!"

This came as no surprise to Savos. Their resident master of conjuration, Phinis Gestor, had demonstrated a keen focus on the necromantic branch of his school, not the Daedric branch, but there was no better place than this college for expanding one's horizons. Besides, he had known about this already.

"I take it Mirabelle's response left you unsatisfied," he said coolly.

"She told me that she was aware of Phinis' experiments, and that the necessary precautions were being taken. But I've heard that a hundred times, and half of those times, something ended up going wrong anyway!"

"It is against the rules of the college to begin any research which may potentially endanger one's peers, without the Arch-Mage's approval. If Arniel Gane were still with us, for example, he would likely be sharing a table with Nelacar in the Frozen Hearth."

Tolfdir stared in silence. He must have thought Savos quite the hypocrite at that moment, and not without reason.

"Arniel Gane conducted his research in deliberate secrecy. He must have known I would never approve it. That project could have eradicated far more than his own being. Phinis Gestor has gone through all the proper channels for his project, and so we have been able to provide the necessary precautions. If you would like to personally observe his procedure at work, you are most welcome to."

"What… But… What does he even want with an unbound dremora?"

"Originally, a sigil stone, I believe, for the atronach forge. Now he desires to design a spell to use a dremora as a permanent thrall."

Tolfdir opened his mouth in reply, but was interrupted by the door behind him swinging open; he turned to see the Master Wizard herself striding in. She stopped just by where Tolfdir stood, an envelope in one hand.

"Good afternoon, Arch-Mage," said Mirabelle Ervine. "Tolfdir. I hope I'm not interrupting."

Tolfdir's gaze turned down to the envelope, then back to Savos Aren. "No, no, we were just finishing up," he said airily. "Thank you, Arch-Mage."

Savos turned his attention to Mirabelle, but the two of them stood in perfect silence, looking upon one another as Tolfdir took his leave.

The moment the man closed the door behind him, Mirabelle broke into her big, beautiful smile. It quickly turned to poorly suppressed laughter. Savos covered his mouth with his hand. There was no avoiding joining her mirth.

"Safety?" asked Mirabelle.

"Safety." Savos put his hand down, cleared his throat, composed his thoughts, and so on. Then started laughing again.

Mirabelle wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I told him you'd have the same response as I had."

"And you were right, of course."

"Truthfully, it's hard not to feel a little pity for him. His apprentices keep _dying_. Trying to protect them must wear on his mind."

By the standards of the great wizards of history, Mirabelle Ervine was not much to look at. She was a Breton, and a petite one at that. If it were not for her robes, she would look like the ideal Nordic housewife. But there was no one, not in this world nor the rest, whom Savos would rather trust.

"What's that?" He gestured to the letter in Mirabelle's hand.

She walked up and held out the envelope for him to take. The wax seal had been stamped with the plain, vaguely rectangular icon of a Dwemer ruin, as it would appear on a map.

Inside was a single leaf of paper, folded neatly in half. Savos opened it up, realized he was looking at it upside-down, and then tried again.

_Savos Aren-_

_The Torc of Labyrinthian has fallen into the hands of the Thalmor. They opened the door. Morokei has escaped._

It was a good thing the Arch-Mage was sitting down, because he felt as though everything had suddenly dropped out from beneath him. The moment his eyes reached the word 'Torc', he'd known this was terrible news. But to think... Morokei has escaped. A mind accustomed to taking the world on with steady aplomb was at an abrupt loss.

But there was more text still, and so he read on.

_He still possesses the Staff of Magnus, as far as we know, but it's worse than that. He's obtained Konahrik's mask as well. All other seven dragon priests in Skyrim are dead, but he managed to retrieve their masks. If you know anything, anything at all about Konahrik's capabilities, please let us know._

_I hope you have something up your sleeve for this._

_-DB_

"Are you all right?" asked Mirabelle, snapping Savos back to attention.

In response, he handed the letter over for Mirabelle to read.

From some neutral standpoint, a dragon priest at large was not the worst news the Arch-Mage could have received. But for anything else, he would have not been left silently cursing his foolishness. The difference between Morokei and any other threat in the world was that Morokei was _his fault_.

This blame was twofold in nature. Savos had led the expedition that disturbed the dragon priest from his dormant state. And when he had sealed the door to the ruin, he had not been simply containing a powerful enemy, but burying the greatest demon of his past.

And it had worked. The elder Dunmer—young, at the time—had trapped Morokei in a magical barrier to keep him inside Labyrinthian, and pried the Torc from its place on the door to keep everyone else out. He had never considered that this buried demon might ever be exhumed. But then he had made the mistake of handing the Torc over to the custody of the Dragonborn.

All of these years of wise, prudent service as Arch-Mage seemed to simply fall away. There would be no hiding behind secrecy this time. The demons of his past had become the demons of the present.


	8. Eredra 2

Morndas, 11:35 AM, 2nd of First Seed, 4E 202

Sleeping Tree Camp

What a fitting name for a camp. The first thing that she saw was the tree.

Eredra had just been walking and walking for days. With rest, of course, but the main reason her legs weren't too sore to move was that she'd been pumping herself full of healing spells. It was just her out here, alone, trying to find her way back west.

And she knew she was supposed to make a rendezvous at this camp, but all she knew about it was its name. Sleeping Tree Camp. Which was fine, because this was Whiterun Hold, also known as completely open plains. She spotted the tree from literally miles away.

She'd never seen one like it before in her life. The entire thing was a strange, iridescent pink-blue. It looked like its seed might have come from Aetherius itself. But the tree was leafless, stunted, gnarled, twisted. Less of a Sleeping Tree and more of a Dying Tree.

As she crested the last gentle hill to the camp, Eredra realized that the Sleeping Tree's trunk actually rose from a little pond. Just this strange-looking pool of oddly purple-hued water. And along its edge, there were a couple little balls of white glow, presumably from nirnroots.

In addition, a couple of black silhouettes were standing knee-deep in the water, on either side of the tree. They were bathing it in the orange swirling aura of restoration magic.

Looked about right, then. Typical backwater surreal magical whatever.

To the right of the pool, there was a rocky hillside face, not terribly high up. Eredra realized that she was looking at the mouth of a cave, with a mammoth skull fixed above it in the stone. So the 'camp' in Sleeping Tree Camp meant it had been a giant camp, at some point in time.

As Eredra headed down the hill towards the camp, one of the silhouettes stepped out of the water and started walking up to her. Almost immediately, she recognized the silhouette as wearing the black robes of the Thalmor.

Which was good, because Eredra was wearing the same kind of robes too. She'd missed them.

The robed figure coming up to greet her turned out to be a boy. As in, he looked pretty young. Compared to the races of men, all Altmer had pointed, elongated sort of features, but by their own standards, he looked like a wide-eyed round-cheeked little kid in a uniform.

"Commander Eredra, I presume," he said brightly.

Eredra nodded and held out her gloved hand politely. "And you are, sir?"

"Lieutenant Cluaro." The boy met her handshake, then paused halfway through, looked down, then back up, frowning. "I thought your hand, uh…"

Of course. Eredra's reputation preceded her. She sighed and held up her left arm for him to see. The sleeve was pinned shut at the very end. "Wrong hand, but yes."

Cluaro stared like an idiot for a couple seconds for coming to his senses again. "Oh. Huh! Well, then. It's amazing you can get by. I've never met a disabled officer still in service before."

"Well, then." Eredra started walking past him, towards the Sleeping Tree. "Who else is here?"

"There are a few more mages in—" He suddenly realized Eredra wasn't waiting for him, and started following along. "There are a few more of us in the cave."

Eredra said nothing. She was still too far from the tree to get an up-close look, so… Walking. If it weren't for her having company now, she'd be casting more healing on herself.

Besides, the moment of silence gave her time to think about what she was looking at. The Sleeping Tree was in a strategically terrible place to hold. Right in the middle of Whiterun Hold, no natural defenses, fairly close by to the hold capital, and given the tree's nature, impossible to camouflage. It was even already a known location. Sort of a landmark, almost.

And yet the Thalmor had a skeleton crew of mages here anyway, trying to heal the ailing tree with their own magic. This was going to be good.

"You know, there were some giants here before we arrived," Cluaro piped up.

"All Thalmor? No regulars?"

"Uh… Correct."

Eredra nodded approvingly. Working alongside regulars was a mess. For one thing, the Thalmor's own armed forces had no enlisted ranks. Their lowest rank was lieutenant.

Incidentally, this meant Cluaro was the lowest rank he could possibly be right now. Which was sad, because it meant Eredra couldn't summarily demote him.

For another, the Thalmor officer ranks had their own structure, separate from the regular officer hierarchy. And the Justiciars had had their _own_ ranks, so when the Justiciar branch in Skyrim was dissolved, there was a big messy effort to try to merge the surviving members into roles they didn't belong in.

So they'd ended up with Justiciars turned generals, trying to give orders to proper military officers. Small wonder the Aldmeri Dominion had been having such a nightmare here so far.

Eredra was right. Those glowing spots were nirnroots. They were sitting right there on the ground, chiming away like they did. And there was one more mage still standing in the water, casting restoration magic on the tree. Eredra looked down at the mage, and the tree in general, with raised eyebrows.

"So… What _is _this?"

"Hm?" Cluaro did an ungraceful sort of double take. "Oh, uh… You don't know? I thought you came here to help us along."

"I was sent to meet a contact in Eastmarch. I had thought I'd return to Markarth, but I received orders to come here instead." Eredra gestured to the tree. "So what's this about?"

"Trying to salvage a celestial gift, drained to near-uselessness by brainless locals," Cluaro said with perfect Thalmor haughtiness. "They were extracting the Sleeping Tree's sap. To drink."

Eredra gave him a sidelong glance.

"They treat it like skooma." Cluaro shrugged. "I haven't tried it. Anyway, we have it on good authority that this abuse of the Sleeping Tree has not been coincidence. It's been here for hundreds of years, but never once has it been allowed to blossom. The day it does, the magical aura it generates will be so strong, we'll be able to use it for anything we want."

No need to ask what they would use it for. Eredra's colleagues had always pursued one single goal. And it wasn't that they particularly _wanted_ to do anything as drastic as erase the mortal plane. Some people might, but…

"Excellent," Eredra said. "The sooner, the better."

Cluaro smiled. "I suppose you'd have the right to complain about mortal limits. The gods gave us two hands, and we usually get to keep them. I don't know why they'd let you keep being an officer."

No. He did not just say that.

Eredra inclined her head towards him, just a tiny bit. This pudding-faced brat was grinning at his own wit.

"Lieutenant," she murmured, "how long have you been in the service?"

That got him to pay attention. "Uh… Two years. Why?"

"I'm surprised, honestly. This is the Thalmor's newest, best bid at their ultimate goal, and they're staffing it with a tiny handful of mages. And _you're_ on the team. They must not expect you to last long."

Cluaro stared dumbly at her.

Eredra stared back. "Who's in charge here, Lieutenant?"

"Major Asmo. Do you want me to go get him?"

"You should have notified him of my arrival immediately. Go."

The lieutenant mumbled something sounding vaguely like an apology, then scurried away towards the cave entrance, beneath the mammoth skull. Eredra waited patiently outside.

Beneath her, the remaining mage in the water was still casting restoration magic. She decided not to comment on that. Did healing spells even work on trees? That wasn't something they'd studied back in Alinor.

After maybe half a minute of waiting, someone came storming back out of the cave. Not Lieutenant Cluaro. This elf was in the same Thalmor uniform, but he could've been Cluaro's father. Well, not his father. His uncle, maybe. That sort of unsavory uncle that no one ever liked to invite over for the New Life Festival. That was how this elf looked.

"What is the meaning of this!" the elf demanded. In terms of syntax, that was definitely a question, but he said it like he was insulting Eredra's mother.

"Major Asmo, correct?" Eredra crossed her arms. She could already tell this was going to make her day. "It's a pleasure."

"Commander Eredra." Asmo's expression did not soften. He was outranked, he had to understand that. But maybe he didn't like hearing that this one-handed girl was spouting vitriol about how expendable his team was.

Where to even start with this lot? Someplace simple, maybe. "Major, why are you in uniform?"

"Why are _you _in uniform?"

"Because I've been traveling alone, my movement is tactically insignificant, the dragons don't go after everyone they see wearing black, and it's the only enchanted clothing I've had. You're here for an indefinite period of time, in one place, in an obvious landmark, where there used to be giants and mammoths."

Asmo's lips tightened. He was getting that deliciously self-righteous look that Thalmor officers were so famous for. "We are officers of the Aldmeri Dominion. We do not fear—"

"Stop talking."

At least he could follow orders.

"You and your men will dress like the citizens of Whiterun Hold. You will not betray your identity as Thalmor mages to anyone you find. If anyone _does_ find out, silence them as discreetly as possible. If this is too hard for you to follow, I can write it down. I mean, I might as well. I'm not done giving instructions, I have more."

Asmo took a deep breath. "You… Are my superior officer. But you were not assigned command of the Sleeping Tree endeavor. I was. I will manage this situation as I see fit, and although I value your input, th—"

Eredra closed the distance between them with a single step. A split second later, her elbow was cracking into Asmo's jaw. He actually bit his own tongue.

This was basically Skyrim's Thalmor leadership these days. A complete and utter disaster. The late Prime Justiciar, Ondolemar, had gone missing, only to be replaced by the _other _late Prime Justiciar, Elevir. The late commander of the 14th Unit, Lestra, had been butchered along with her entire unit at Labyrinthian. And the late Skyrim theater leader, General Ancano, had mismanaged things so badly, he'd somehow managed to raze practically the entire Reach without extending the Thalmor's influence beyond Markarth.

They'd been burning through commanding officers for long enough that the people left were arrogant little pigs like Asmo here.

The mage in the pond was staring silently. Eredra was vaguely aware that some of the others in the cave were watching too. It didn't matter. The Thalmor followed the notion that power aligned itself with truth. In other words, command came to the truly superior. In other words, were they going to protest her striking their incompetent commanding officer? No, they were not.

Speaking of which, Eredra looked down at him.

"You are relieved of your command of the Sleeping Tree endeavor. Don't get up, it won't help."


	9. Thorald 2

Turdas, 6:28 AM, 5th of First Seed, 4E 202

Silent City

There were no squad members to meet up with. Thorald returned to the Tower of Mzark alone. By the time he'd walked all the way back, his body was one big ache, his armor felt like it was solid lead, and the sun was coming up.

He'd made this trip a dozen times by now. It was getting to be like any other routine. He stepped into the lift, pushed the lever on the floor, and waited. This time, though, he also set his canvas package down next to him. It was so heavy. His body thanked him instantly.

Then he sat down on the lift floor for good measure. If he weren't so sore, he could've just gone to sleep then and there.

There was no Great Lift for the Silent City. This lift stopped at the oculory, he'd have to exchange to another there. Again, typical routine. There were a couple guards on duty here, but they didn't do much more than ask him how he was. He said something polite to them and kept on going.

Around this point, Thorald stopped feeling like he was actually in Skyrim. He was in a dwarven ruin. Smooth stone walls, stark white lighting, perfectly processed warm air. It could've been anywhere in Tamriel.

Thorald didn't bother to sit down during the second descent. His body was worked to the point of exhaustion—walking, then climbing, then more climbing, then more walking—all with a full suit of heavy armor, and a massive metal contraption bundled up on his back. But he was about to be back in the safety of Blackreach.

Once, this place had felt impossibly alien. Like it couldn't have ever been a real thing. Blackreach was easily the biggest underground space in the world. It was one huge Y-shaped cavern connecting three completely different dwarven cities, spanning three holds of Skyrim. And it was crammed with ancient buildings, fluorescent rocks, glowing mushrooms, exotic plants, all sorts of stuff. It didn't feel like something that could normally just _exist_.

It happened that the Tower of Mzark was pretty much at the heart of the Silent City, the settlement at the hub of the Y shape. It was the only connection between that city and the surface, which sort of said a lot about how little the dwarves had cared to invite traffic from outside. But Thorald had taken this trip so many times now. Once, it had felt alien, but now it was just a second home to him.

When the lift doors opened again, Thorald was met with a familiar scene. The debate hall was just about dead ahead, and the sun-orb floated above it in the misty air. A few people meandered around the streets, and there were a couple more guards standing on duty here.

"Thorald," one of them said. "Welcome back."

These two guards were both members of the Black Machine. Numbers 21-1 and 21-2. He didn't know their names, but ever since the attack on Alftand, everyone seemed to know him.

After Darakur's—no, Estormo's—treachery had been revealed, a little investigation showed that the armor he'd helped design was full of hidden little defects to exploit. One of them, in the helmet, actually drove a metal spike through the wearer's skull at the pull of an internal lever, inside the plating itself. Naturally, the Black Machine's response was to melt everyone's armor back down to scrap and start over.

They'd even redone the numbering system, in response to so many of them being wiped out. Instead of just a single number, everyone had a squad number, and then a personal number. The 1 was always the squad leader. Thorald happened to be the leader of Squad 29. In the old numbering system, this would've made him 141. That'd been Ralof's position.

He wondered if anyone else remembered that man. Someone had to.

In any case, the new armor was a stark contrast to the old. It was still sort of between dwarven and Nordic in design, still decorated with all the curls and swirls that Nords liked etched into their metal. But they'd had time to explore more of Blackreach's mines recently, dig up new ores.

Most of the surfaces had been fitted with a thin layer of ebony on top. The result was basically the plate armor version of black with gold trim.

It was like they were taking that color scheme back from the Thalmor. Making it good again. Thorald had to like that logic. He was wearing the new armor right that second, he'd better have liked it.

"Thank you. Where's Durzge? She wanted to hear from me."

"The workshop, I think," said 21-2. "Her team is still cracking open dynamos."

Thorald nodded and started on his way. It was a couple minutes' walk from here to the workshop. So close, yet so far. The cargo slung over his shoulder was starting to kill him.

Except he'd barely even made it past the first couple buildings before he heard his name again.

"Thorald! Hey!"

That voice was familiar. Thorald glanced over his shoulder.

Just like that, a man in solid dwarven metal armor was standing by him. Not the Nordic-looking black-and-gold stuff that the Black Machine wore now, but a completely different suit. As far as Thorald knew, it was the only one of its make in the world.

They'd never really spoken before. This was going to be interesting.

"Hello, Dragonborn," he said, a bit unsteadily. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh…" The Dragonborn lowered his head and pulled off his helmet. Thorald had seen him without it before, but it was still sort of a shock. The legends of the Dragonborn implied he'd be a Nord, not an Imperial. "Yeah, I just saw your ID as you were going by."

That would be referring to the '29-1' printed in big blocky golden digits on Thorald's pauldrons. It was on pretty much every piece of armor he wore, but every member of the Black Machine was supposed to be identifiable by number.

"Well, it's me." Thorald removed his own helmet in kind. It was just good manners.

The Dragonborn shifted his head backward ever so slightly. "Oh, wow. You don't look so good."

"I don't?"

"No. Here, let me take that." He held out his arm. Thorald should have politely refused, but he was so eager to get the damn package off his person, he didn't even care.

The moment the Dragonborn had put it over his shoulder, he was fiddling with that arm's gauntlet with his free hand. From somewhere beneath his forearm's plating, he pulled out a long, slender tube of dwarven metal, and unscrewed the cap off one end.

"Here, drink this," he said. "It'll help."

It was like drinking liquid fire. But not in the sense of being burned, more in the sense of… Drinking the liquid version of resting in front of a fireplace. The fatigue just melted away from Thorald's senses.

"Alchemy," he shrugged, then handed the tube back. "Thanks, Dragonborn."

The Dragonborn smiled up at him while he was putting the tube back in his armor. "It's… Not quite a night's sleep, as sharpening the mind goes. But a night's sleep can't erase the soreness from a man's muscles. Also, call me Iseus."

He'd heard that was the Dragonborn's given name. Made sense, really. It even sounded Imperial. Anyway, Thorald was feeling pretty much fine now. He started walking in the same direction as before, helmet tucked under his arm.

"You going to the workshop?" Iseus asked. "I was going to ask you about the crossbow."

Thorald started to say something, then realized he hadn't thought of anything to say yet. The Dragonborn was right, his potion wasn't the same as fixing missing hours of sleep. "I, uh… Hmm. I thought that was Durzge's project."

"She's supervising it. I designed the crossbow mechanics. Did they work?"

Somehow, that didn't come as a surprise. This man just worked miracles for a living. "Mostly. Got the whole lot of mages, but the bolts were hitting way off to the left of where I was aiming. I think that little lens tube on top might've been fixed on wrong."

"Huh." The Dragonborn nodded slowly. He looked like his mind was someplace far away. "Relatively minor thing, then. I'll have to look into it. I'd guess part of that is you assembled it on the spot."

"Easier than carrying it around in one piece."

"Yeah… Hey, did anyone tell you just what these mages were doing?"

Thorald snorted derisively. What kind of stupid chain of command told its soldiers everything the higher-ups knew? "Of course not."

"I didn't know either, till recently." The Dragonborn stopped walking. After a little look around, he headed over and sat down on an empty building's stone porch. Thorald obviously had to follow.

"So what've you got?"

"It goes without saying that I need you to stay quiet about this. I'm only telling you at all because you're… Well, you know."

A member of the noble Gray-Mane house. An accomplished and honorable Nord warrior. A veteran in the Great War. A former captive of the Thalmor. A soldier in the Black Machine. The one to avenge the deaths of twenty-nine of his colleagues. The one to protect Vulthuryol long enough for the Daedric Prince of knowledge to save them all.

"Yep," he said.

"The Thalmor are up to something. I mean, besides the obvious. I'm working on a plan to respond, but whatever this is, it's so secret that even their own leaders don't know about it."

What a thought. That changed so much about what the Thalmor must have been like. Thorald had always supposed their leaders ordered all manner of atrocities done in total secrecy. It had never really occurred to him that those leaders might not be the only ones keeping secrets.

"Any idea of what they're doing?"

"Trying to end the world again, or start another Oblivion Crisis, or send an assassin for Heimskr, I dunno."

"Heimskr." Thorald furrowed his brow. "Is that, uh… Who is…"

Iseus threw his arms out like he was embracing an invisible mammoth. "For I am the chosen of Talos!" His voice went from 'gentle conversation' to 'hysterical shouting'. "And there it is, aye, the true nature of men! The—what? What?"

Thorald was covering his face with his armored hands. Trying not to die of laughter. "Oh—oh my—gods that is exactly …"

And just like that, he was back to 'gentle conversation'. "I guess he's made a bit of a name for himself."

"Oh my gods I'm crying—"

"So is he, during half his speeches, I think. He's not a bad man, he just, y'know, he just really loves Talos."

"You imitate him better than I do." Thorald was trying to wipe his eyes with metal fingertips. Not working well.

"Well, I've been to Whiterun." Iseus put on a sneering, lofty tone that could have come from the mouth of a Justiciar. "I actually advise the Jarl, you know, on political matters. As the owner of Chillfurrow Farm, I fill a vital position in world affairs, though I don't expect you've ever been to Dragonsreach—what! Thorald, calm down!"

Thorald slumped over onto his side. His lungs were starting to hurt from the laughing. He needed another stamina potion. This was a Nordic hero he was listening to right now.

"Have you met my father?" Oh no. He was talking like a lady. Voice all higher-up and everything. "He's the steward, up at Dragonsreach. Where the Jarl works. I help my father advise him. People don't realize it, but I'm actually a very important person around here."

It appeared that the Dragonborn was also a bard. On the side. Thorald was having a little trouble making words with his mouth.

"Take your time," Iseus smiled.

Eventually, Thorald was collected enough to answer. "I can see why people like you."

"Besides the thing where I fight the bad guys for them, yeah."

"Can I ask you a question?" This was probably a bad idea. Iseus was just making him feel too comfortable to pass it up.

"Sure, anything."

"Is it true about you and that Khajiit? You know, the one from the College of Winterhold."

Iseus gave him a long look. "… Who would even _tell_ you that?"

Thorald sort of wilted at that. "Uh… Alensi, I think. Was the one to tell me that. And she got it from… Lenve, maybe? It was ages ago that she mentioned it to me."

"Huh. Lenve." The Imperial nodded. "Anyway, the answer's yes. I hope it's not uncomfortable for you."

"That? … No, not really." It was true, too. Thorald honestly couldn't think of any reason the Dragonborn's personal preferences like that would change what kind of leader he was. "On the, uh… On the other hand… I'm sorry, I didn't know I'd even be talking to you today."

And it was just the two of them, too. That bit with imitating Heimskr had failed to get anyone to watch the conversation unfolding. The street was pretty much empty.

Thorald kept going. "I'm a son of Skyrim. I believe in honor, I believe in… You know, right and wrong. There's nothing wrong with your preferences for that sort of thing. I like to think there's also nothing wrong with being in the Black Machine."

Iseus looked down silently, then back up at him. Even the look on his face made Thorald feel more comfortable. It was hard to even think, he hadn't slept in ages, and this man was just disarming him with a silent look.

"We're not fighting the Nord way, are we? Not the Imperial way, either. We're fighting like… Something else. Beasts, maybe. We're dressed in this heavy armor, I've got that special ring of yours, but… Every time I've gone out and fought, it hasn't been a fight. They haven't stood a chance. It doesn't feel right."

Thorald sighed. He knew there was more he wanted to say. He just… Couldn't think of it. Not now.

Now, Iseus spoke up. "You're right," he said. "We're not fighting like Nords. Nor like Imperials. That kind of strategy is for armies to use against other armies. But we _have_ no army. The Imperial Legion in Skyrim is weaker than ever, they lost so many men at Rorikstead, they're sending more to help in Cyrodiil… It's down to us to hold the line.

"And this is the Thalmor we're talking about. You've seen what they're capable of. The Reach is a smoking ruin, as barren as the slopes of the Red Mountain. The soldiers at Rorikstead were slaughtered in seconds. You know what it's like? It's like those rings I gave you guys. It's like magic resistance. If you can fend off ninety nine percent of the Thalmor's attacks, the one percent left will still be enough to kill you. The only way to survive against them is to let _zero_ percent through.

"So I'm pretty sure things should look like, uh… This is what I want out of the Black Machine. I want you to help me fight the enemies of Skyrim. Don't give them any ground, don't give them a fair fight. But don't make them hurt extra, don't do anything cruel to them. We're just here to stop them, no matter what. And if we do that, and we win this war, maybe our grandchildren can live in a peaceful world."

"Not our children?"

"No, our children are alive right now. They're going to have to clean up after this all, too. Poor guys. I figure _their_ children have a fair chance."

Thorald rested his forehead in the heels of his hands. "I thought Nordic heroes were supposed to be beacons of honor in a… In a world full of strife and confusion. You're supposed to show us which way is up. "

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I could give you a hug."

A few seconds went by as Thorald mulled over the offer.

"… Just so I can tell my grandchildren I did this."


	10. Aela 2

Loredas, 11:57 PM, 14th of First Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

The Silver Hand and the Afflicted. Who would've thought?

Ever since the raid on Driftshade, the Silver Hand had been pretty much gone. No one had expected them to come back to Jorrvaskr, let alone with Daedric followers in tow. And Aela wanted to say they'd been easy enough to fight, but… Then again, it had taken them two days just to get the smell of bile out of the floor.

Again, all the regular Companions were already off to bed. Again, there were only a few sitting at the table now. But tonight, they were missing one person.

"He's not in the right frame of mind, brother."

"I really don't think we have any choice."

"We can't just force it on him, we would never do that to one of our own."

"Wouldn't we? If one of our own was at this kind of risk?"

"There are more potions we can try. More ingredients. We haven't gone through them all."

"We don't have time," said Aela. "He might not even last the night."

Both brothers paused and looked at her.

"Aela," Vilkas said slowly, "I understand you want to do what's best for him—"

"I thought we _all_ wanted that."

"—but we're talking about condemning him to something he didn't even ask for. At best, he'll simply have to live with it. At worst, he'll take his own life, or turn on us."

Aela shrugged. "I'm sure we can undo it if he really wants. Farkas, if you wouldn't mind going and getting him up here…"

Farkas nodded, stood up, and went for the stairs to the basement level. Aela and Vilkas were left sitting by themselves. Just the two of them, in this big warm mead hall. It felt sort of eerie.

"You think we can undo it on a whim?" Vilkas frowned.

Another shrug. "We did it once for Kodlak, we can do it twice."

"Well, _you _did it once."

"I know! The only one here who truly enjoys the gift of the beast blood, and I was the one to go in there and purge it from Kodlak. By myself, too, because Farkas has a problem with spiders, and you were, uh…"

Vilkas glanced downward. Was that shame on his face? It very well may have been. "I could not have gone in a place as sacred as Ysgramor's tomb. Not with the anger I carried in my heart."

"What did you even do while we were in there?"

"Oh, uh…" He scratched the back of his head, offering Aela a brief glance. "I went back outside and just looked at all the ice. It was a nice day out. There was a baby horker trying to learn to swim."

"Wait, what?"

"I think it didn't like the cold. It kept just putting its face beneath the water and making unhappy sounds."

Aela stared silently.

"You know, like…" Vilkas dipped his head forward and made a high-pitched burbling noise.

"… All right."

"Well, there wasn't a lot else to—"

The doors to the basement level swung open. Farkas was coming up the stairs. Over his plate-armored shoulder, he was carrying a person like a sack of cabbage. The person was wearing just the most basic underclothes. Even from over here, the bare skin looked visibly wrong. All red and mottled and veiny. He wasn't moving.

"Is he alive?" Vilkas instantly got up out of his seat. Farkas was behind him, so he had to turn away from Aela to look, but she still caught a glimpse of the worry on the man's war-painted face. To think, they were all so worked up over the fate of a common thief.

"For the moment," Farkas sort of grunted. "He's breathing. We'd better hurry."

"It's a wonder no one else fell prey to this disease," Vilkas said.

Aela moved over to open up one of the doors to the outside. The cool night air hit her like a dose of magic. Nothing like the feeling of the open wild to get her in the right mood for this. "Well, no one else got that horrible _stuff_ in their face. Besides me, and the three of us are… I shouldn't have to explain this."

Farkas nodded, then started towards her. "Right. Let's get to work."

Jorrvaskr was often said to be the oldest structure in Whiterun, the entire town having been built around it over time. This simply wasn't true. The oldest structure in Whiterun was the Skyforge. Jorrvaskr had been built right in its shadow. An ancient forge, older than anyone could remember, whose steel was imbued with legendary power.

No one seemed to question the Skyforge being perched up on a little rocky plateau. It was just the sort of thing that deserved to have a staircase going up to it. There definitely wasn't some kind of secret chamber inside the plateau itself. Certainly, any chamber like that wouldn't be the meeting place of a secret werewolf group.

The Underforge was a low, crudely hewn space, roughly circular, with a big freestanding stone basin in the middle … and that was it. No secret artifacts, no mythical sources of power. In the Circle's place of gathering, the only strength to be found was within oneself.

It was oddly well-lit in here. It looked as though sunlight were streaming in from nowhere in particular, even though it was just about midnight outside. Aela had to squint as she walked inside.

Vilkas came in after her, then Farkas followed last, body in tow. He closed the hidden stone door after them, and the sounds of nighttime were muted. It was completely silent in here.

Farkas shifted his limp cargo from his shoulder to his arms. "Let's get this over with. Aela?"

It was time to enter her preferred form of being. This would be exciting.

Change.

She was strong. She could move.

Farkas put Brynjolf in front of the bowl. Still asleep. Not good.

She held out her arm over the bowl. Vilkas said some words, then used a dagger to cut the wrist. It hurt, but Aela let the blood flow. She would heal. It was fine.

Brynjolf wouldn't wake up. He needed to drink. Vilkas said more words, louder. It wasn't helping.

This was wrong. Brynjolf needed to wake up. She growled and reached out for him. Farkas pulled him away.

Vilkas dipped his hand in the bowl. Started pouring it into Brynjolf's mouth. He was still asleep.

It took time. Her wrist closed again.

Soon, it started. Brynjolf started to move. His body was taking in the beast blood. But he was very sick. She did not know what to be ready for.

Vilkas and Farkas moved away. Brynjolf fell to the floor. He was still moving around. His body was changing. It looked violent.

Aela pointed at the door. Soon, they would need more space. Farkas understood. He opened it again.

Just in time. Brynjolf was done. He made his first howl before he even stood. It sounded like a scream. Like prey. She didn't like it.

Then he left. Right out the door. Faster than any other beast she had met. She leapt over the bowl, followed him outside.

Brynjolf had climbed up onto the roof of the mead hall. She didn't even know how. There wasn't any way to get up there. Jump over from the Skyforge, maybe? She didn't know.

Another howl. It sounded better this time. From her eyes, the greater moon was behind him. He was a black shadow over its circle. It looked so perfect.

Then he jumped back down, right in front of her. They stood silently, watching each other. She wondered how he felt right then. If he was feeling the joy of the beast blood, like she did.

Some tiny part of her, deep inside, felt afraid. He had not asked for this. If someone did not desire their beast form, they would not control it well. This was risky.

But Brynjolf did not attack anyone. He went for the wall. The city wall. Leaving Whiterun.

No choice besides follow. Aela climbed it after him.

He was already far ahead. If she lost sight of him, bad things would happen. She started running after him as fast as she could.

Soon, she had to slow down. Brynjolf had just entered this form. He wasn't moving his limbs the totally right way for running. She didn't want to catch up with him. Actually stopping him would just make it worse. So she just let him run.

So they ran, and ran, and ran. They went across fields, and through streams, and over rocks.

And in the end, Brynjolf had spent his energy. He slowed down to walking, then sat down next to a boulder.

When he turned back to his Nord form, his skin was the correct color. He was healthy again. He was laying still, but he was healthy.

The beast form did not let her show her happiness well, so she exited it now.

Change.

That had been quite a trek. Aela could barely even see Dragonsreach from here. Looking at the city keep, the towering peak of the Throat of the World was right behind her, so they must have been running basically due south.

"Divines help me," murmured Brynjolf's voice.

Aela hurried over to where he lay, knelt down by him on the soft earth. "Are you all right?"

Brynjolf's eyes were closed. He looked like he was in a bit of pain. "What in Oblivion just happened?"

"We had to make you a werewolf, like us. But I'm sure you figured that out."

Brynjolf's screwed up his face and sighed through his nose. And that was as far as his reaction got. Aela had sort of expected him to try and slug her in the jaw. But instead, he just asked, "… _Why?_"

"You were just getting sicker and sicker. Whatever the Afflicted hit you with… None of the potions we were giving you were helping. But werewolves are immune to disease, so… You're clean now."

"Sure, swapping one thing for another…" Brynjolf opened his eyes, then turned to look at Aela.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Total silence.

"Aela, why aren't you wearing anything?"

Aela glanced down at herself, just on reflex. He wasn't wrong. "The beast form isn't friends with clothes."

Brynjolf propped himself up on an elbow. "Oh, by the Nine, lass, that's just perfect," he said. Well, grumbled, sort of. "We're not just stranded out in the wild, we're stranded out here and totally bare."

Fortunately, it was a mild night. Whiterun Hold, for an inland territory, was known for some surprisingly level temperatures year-round. She sort of liked that about it. Hunting in Haafingar, for example, would have been a snowy nightmare. "I would've brought you something from Jorrvaskr, but, uh… You know. I was trying to keep an eye on you."

He just shrugged. "Right. So… Now I'm a werewolf, huh? What does this mean?"

"Well…" Aela smiled. "You've been granted a power that few ever experience. The disease immunity is only one small part of—"

Brynjolf waved his free hand at her. "No, no, no, I get that. I've been around you all for weeks, I've heard enough about how amazing werewolves are. But I just… I didn't even… Am I going to be transforming just by accident, now? From now on?"

"No. Definitely not. You can call upon the beast form when you choose to. The beast form doesn't call on you."

"Even though I, uh… Even though…"

"Even though you didn't ask for it?" This got Aela to stop and think. Had this even ever happened before? "I'm honestly not sure. If your gift turns out to be your enemy, there are ways to suppress its effects, even to remove the beast blood from you entirely."

Brynjolf remained silent. He was just staring up at the stars.

It was hard to imagine what the man was going through right then. For as long as Aela had possessed this gift, she'd relished every second of it. Her place was in the wild, in the hunt. That was what she loved. But here was a thief—really, just an ordinary fellow—who had never once even wondered what it would be like as a werewolf. Even the most bountiful gift could fail if it hadn't been asked for.

"I'm sorry, Brynjolf," Aela said quietly.

"The beast blood."

"Huh?"

The Nord pulled himself upright and looked Aela in the eye. "I know what feeling you've talked about this whole time. I can't describe it, but... I swear, those red-skinned freaks had better pay for this."

"Sure," Aela nodded, "but first we should go back and be, uh… Not naked."

Brynjolf gave her an appraising look. "You know, lass, if anyone had told me it'd end up like this, I would've let you make me a werewolf months ago."


	11. Kamian 3

Tirdas, 7:12 PM, 24th of First Seed, 4E 202

Blackreach

Everything looked so small from up here. Except for the mushrooms. Those still looked humongous.

The past few days had been a real adventure. While Iseus had continued diligently enchanting things in his lab, Kamian had spent most of his time over in the Silent City, where the bulk of the people down here lived. Labyrinthian was supposed to be the ancient underground city of Skyrim, but he was pretty sure the Dwemer had the Nords beaten on this one. The Silent City was an actual city, like aboveground, sitting in such a huge cavern that it was basically outdoors anyway.

Once he'd gotten over the shock of that all, the main thing that had stood out was the technology. Self-loading crossbows, powered by repurposed dynamo cores. Automatic potion injectors, activated at the touch of a button. And everything the Dwemer had left for them to use, in that one workshop building. His brother had been very busy!

Then there was the matter of the Black Machine. Kamian was ninety-nine percent certain that the ebony plating was a sort of homage to his own armor. After all, he'd still been in Cyrodiil with Iseus when he started calling himself the Ebony Warrior. Besides, that, though, it really just seemed like something the guy would do. Raising his own little secret army for fighting the Thalmor? Very much an Iseus course of action.

Kamian had been less thrilled to hear about the story of the sun-orb. Vulthuryol's summoning, Hermaeus Mora's interference, the information attack in Alftand… It was nice, but Daedric Princes were a whole new level of danger. Kamian had the power to kill just about anything that could be killed, but the Daedric Princes fundamentally could not be killed.

At least Iseus was still alive and well. Once he'd had his fill of the Silent City, Kamian had returned to the Alftand outpost, just because this was where his brother usually worked. And now they sat next to each other, on the edge of a balcony not far from the Great Lift exit. From here, he could see the doors to Alftand, the field laboratory, the nirnroot garden, and off in the distance, the shuttle terminal.

Speaking of which, that shuttle was amazing to ride. He still preferred riding on the back of a dragon, but… The Dwemer must have gotten a real kick out of that thing.

"I hope you liked the dinner," Iseus said.

"I'm not entirely sure how you made that. How do you get _eggs_ down here?"

"I'm a master of alchemy. I can synthesize just about anything I want to. The building blocks to imitate an egg aren't that hard to decipher, come on, you shouldn't underestimate me like that. … There's some livestock outside the Silent City. I hope you liked it."

"Not bad. It could've been a lot worse."

They spent a little while in silence, just looking around. Kamian found himself just watching his brother. He himself refused to get out of his armor, but Iseus looked happy enough just wearing regular worker's clothes all the time. Looked less like a Nordic hero and more like an Imperial laborer.

When they'd been younger, Kamian had always tried to pay attention to how Iseus felt about things. He'd been such a sensitive boy. He hardly wore his emotions on his sleeve, and everyone in Cyrodiil had faced hard times after the Great War, but things seemed to just… Affect him, maybe, more than they affected other people. Fond memories of holding him and trying to make him feel better when he was crying about some bad thing or other. There'd been no one else to do it.

After a while, Kamian had been able to figure out how he was feeling, what was on his mind, just by watching his face, watching his body. But that was years ago. Now, it didn't seem to exactly work anymore. Iseus was just blank. His face was blank, his posture was neutral, there was nothing there. It was a little uncomfortable to look at.

Iseus prodded him with a knuckle. "What's on your mind?"

"I dunno." Kamian shrugged. "The Imperial City, maybe. Childhood memories."

"I guess you do have some of those."

"Yeah, I was, uh… You were only two when the sack happened, I think." And Kamian himself had been nine. He didn't like to think about that. "Actually, that reminds me, didn't you just turn thirty?"

Iseus nodded. "My birthday's still on Sun's Dawn the eleventh, it didn't change while you were out."

"Right. Well, happy late birthday, then! Did anyone get you anything good?"

"No, I haven't… I haven't really told anyone around here my birthday."

Kamian looked at him silently. He didn't even look sad about it.

"Why in Oblivion not?"

Iseus just sort of looked back at him. "Well, I didn't want anyone to worry about it, so…"

Now, that was just typical of him. Kamian leaned back on his hands and made an exasperated noise. "Now I have to get you a birthday present. Or… Actually, I have to get you _three _birthday presents, don't I?"

No answer. A flicker of feeling passed over his brother's face. Barely a twitch. He didn't have to guess what that was about.

"… I'm sorry, Iseus," he said. "I'm really sorry."

"You…" Iseus shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We're here now, I'm doing well enough, everything's… Just fine."

Kamian couldn't help but chuckle. "I thought you were supposed to be a good liar."

It was like he'd just dropped a charade. Iseus leaned back next to him and gave him a conceding look. "You know, I usually am. But come on, you just went and left me in Cyrodiil, do you expect me to not be pissed off at all?"

"Uh…"

"I actually came up here to Skyrim to look for you." Those old cues of emotion were coming back hard. Kamian didn't have to strain to hear the tremor in his brother's voice. "And you didn't come to see me ever. Not until… Not until your own little heroic thing forced you to. What kind of Sovngarde-seeking hero does that? Ditches their little brother? Do you even _care_?"

"Yes, I care," Kamian said, maybe a little too impatiently. "I was trying to help you, I told you so back then too. Would you rather I just had you living in my shadow this whole time? You were meant for more than that, you have your own person to become. Didn't it work?"

"Maybe a little too well," Iseus grumbled. "Look at this place."

Obligingly, Kamian took another look at the cavern before them. Arguably, the biggest Dwemer ruin in the world. It could easily count as a tenth hold of Skyrim, tiny population notwithstanding. And his brother was in charge of it all. Yes, it worked.

"How did you do it, anyway?"

Iseus glanced up at him. Even sitting down, the height difference was fairly obvious. "Do what? Set up my base of operations down here? Make all these machines, get all these Thu'ums?"

"Huh. I actually hadn't thought of that. How many Thu'ums do you know, anyway? I only have, like... Three."

"Uh… All of them, I think."

Kamian waited patiently for him to go on.

"It's a bit of a story, actually. I just… The Greybeards told me that the Dragonborn power meant I could kill dragons, absorb their souls, learn Thu'ums that way. And they also gave me a few themselves. To get to the Throat of the World, I needed the Clear Skies one. To calm down the winds, and all."

"I remember that!" Kamian had been to High Hrothgar himself. Shortly after Iseus' first visit there, in fact. "I always wanted to go up there."

"It's really not much to look at, don't, uh... Don't worry about that. Anyway, Arngeir, you know, that head Greybeard fellow, he told me that was going to be the last Thu'um they'd give me, so I ought to use it wisely. And… I went up to the peak, talked to Paarthurnax—"

"That's where he's been? Damn. They didn't tell me."

"They don't like to tell people about him. So I went up there, talked to him, and… Asked him to tell the Greybeards to teach me every single Thu'um they know."

"Every single Thu'um," he repeated flatly.

"Saved some time."

"Doesn't that mean they don't know the Thu'ums anymore?"

"I don't… _Think _so? They seemed fine afterwards."

Kamian nodded. He could envision it well enough, too. Iseus had a way of just getting people to do things. "So what about the machines? I've been to Dwemer ruins before, that self-loading crossbow is _not _one of their inventions."

"Oh, I just read the Oghma Infinium," Iseus said. Perfect nonchalance. It was about the same tone he might've used for saying, 'Oh, I just went to the library.'

"Right, because of the whole thing with Hermaeus Mora. Path of steel, and all?"

"Yep. Lots of good information. At this rate, I'm going to be like a god in a few years. Logic is so underrated. The Dwemer were onto something, let me tell you. I… See you're up to date on your mythology, though, nice work."

"That is sort of my niche, isn't it?" For a wanderer, Kamian considered himself extremely well read. He'd been that way since he was a boy. Iseus had been right about the matter of Sovngarde, too. His way was of the warrior, he supposed, but there was plenty of room to be good about that, if his knowledge of history was at all right.

On that note… "Technology seems to be a dangerous path," Kamian said. "Take a look around us."

"That's what… I told you to do." Iseus quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Fine, just keep looking at me, whatever. But we're in a Dwemer ruin. It's crammed with machinery. The people who lived here last, they were masters of that stuff. And… They're all gone."

"Perceptive."

Kamian ignored that. "They really shouldn't have tried using their tools on the Heart of Lorkhan."

"Is that what happened?"

"Yeah, they just… Wanted to become immortal, or something, and they made a… Truly grievous mistake. Reason, logic, science, technology… It's all good for navigating mundane things. But if you're going to ever try to do anything involving the Aedra, the Daedra, Aetherius, Oblivion, any of that…"

"I think I get what you mean," Iseus said.

"You should know about this. Hermaeus Mora is the Daedric Prince of forbidden knowledge, essentially. A lot of that knowledge would drive us mad if we knew it. But the thing about knowledge is, it's true whether you know about it or not. If you're ever going to do more than mundane things, you have to accept that logic is wrong."

"Yeah, well…"

"I just don't want anything bad to happen from this. It sounds like the Oghma Infinium didn't have any harmful stuff in it, but—"

Iseus pointed past him. "What's this?"

A pale blue spectral figure was coming out of the Great Lift exit, walking towards them.

"That's one of ours," he said. "Hold on. _Feim._"

With a striking hiss of energy, Iseus' whole body went ethereal too. He hopped right off the balcony, landed nimbly on the ground below, and then went back to normal. Kamian definitely had to learn that one at some point.

Whatever was going on down there, it was too distant for him to hear. Iseus ran the distance up to the spectral figure, they had a brief conversation, some kind of item was exchanged, and they parted ways. Kamian had to wait for him to come all the way back up the stairs and around to the balcony. In the meantime, he just took another look at those absurdly large mushrooms. He couldn't get over those.

"It's the Arch-Mage," Iseus said from behind him. A moment later, he was sitting back down on his spot on the balcony, envelope in hand. He broke the wax seal, pulled out the paper inside, and scowled at the contents.

Kamian watched him expectantly. "What is it?"

He raised one hand over his head and popped a little hovering ball of shining light into being. "Too dark to read. Let's see here…"

Half a minute or so later, he set the paper down in his lap, and let out a long sigh. "Well, he wants Odahviing."

"… What now?"

"He wants me to summon Odahviing at noon on Loredas, and send him over to Mzulft."

Mzulft. That was in Eastmarch, if Kamian recalled correctly. Not terribly far away. "You're going to have to explain a little more than that, brother."

"Odahviing. The dragon I captured at Dragonsreach? You know how all dragons' names are Thu'ums, three-word combinations and all. That's because if you say a dragon's name as a Thu'um, they can hear it. No matter where they are in the world, they hear your Thu'um, and can tell where it came from."

"So you know his name."

"Right, and Savos wants me to send him to Mzulft. There's something there that'll let him figure out where Morokei is, and he wants to bring me the news as quick as he can. You know, so… I guess that's so Morokei doesn't have time to move very far."

"Oh, he wants to use the oculory, I guess."

Iseus actually did a double take. Glanced up at Kamian in acknowledgement, returned to the letter, then snapped back to stare at him, eyebrows raised. "Mzulft has an oculory?"

The candlelight spell winked out of existence. Iseus replaced it instantly.

"Apparently one of two in Skyrim. You have the other right over the Silent City, but… Yeah, the other month, I went through Mzulft, I was trying to find some stuff. Didn't find it. Killed a lot of Falmer, though."

"Oh my gods, Falmer. Those are the most annoying little things." He clawed at the air and made a 'waaaughh' noise from the back of his throat. "Blackreach was full of them when I showed up."

Kamian smirked beneath his visor. "Yeah, that's… That's basically what they sound like, actually. Was there anything else in the letter?"

Iseus glanced down at it, then scowled again. "Uh… He hopes his former pupil J'zargo is fitting in well here."

"That's that Khajiit, right? The one in your lab."

"Savos is a hundred-something years old, he should be more mature than that."

If Kamian recalled correctly, Savos Aren was a Dunmer, which meant he was going past his race's lifespan a little bit. Magic, he supposed. "Huh?"

"Well, I recruited J'zargo late last year, to help with alchemy and whatever, so he's been down here in the lab with me, just us, and, uh…"

Kamian caught his eye. "Yeah?"

He grinned. "Yep. Yeah, yeah—"

Both of them, at once: "Yeeeah!" Kamian held up his hand. Iseus met it.

The elder brother laughed aloud. "See, I knew you'd do fine. You're just… C'mon, look at that."

"Yeah, and to be honest, I was lying about the livestock thing. I actually did make the eggs from scratch. I've been learning a lot of stuff people don't know how to do."

"Really?"

"No, come on, alchemy is for potions. What kind of hole have you been hiding in the past three years?"

"The hole that Hevnoraak, Krosis, Otar, Nahkriin, Rahgot, Vokun and Volsung were all also hiding in, apparently."

"Did you just list them all in alphabetical order?"

"Morokei would have been listed fourth."

The candlelight spell went out again. This time, Iseus didn't bother to cast another.

There was a little more time in silence. Kamian went back to just watching his brother. It'd been far too long. He looked visibly older, if just by a bit. That wasn't supposed to happen with family. Then again…

"Are you going to be going away again?" Iseus asked quietly. "Now that you've told me your news. I imagine you have places to be."

"Iseus… If you want me to go someplace else, even if it's just… Away from here, I'll do that. But you're not an only child. If the world needs us side by side, that's what the world will get."

"What if Morokei hadn't escaped? If the door were still sealed, if you still had your wooden mask. Would you be willing to come to my side then?"

Kamian smiled softly. "It's a tiny delay, in the end. You know we're going to be spending eternity together."


	12. Savos 2

Sundas, 10:49 AM, 29th of First Seed, 4E 202

Mzulft

When traveling outside Winterhold, Savos Aren never wore the robes of his office. Perhaps, in some other era, they would have conferred some measure of respect from outsiders. But today, in Skyrim's contemporary climate of politics, he was much happier to face the prejudices against a lone elder Dunmer than the hatred for the leader of those grave-digging fiends in Winterhold. No one would recognize him in commoner's clothes.

Between this practice and his tendency to leave daily affairs of the College in the hands of the Master Wizard, there was a common notion that the Arch-Mage simply never left his quarters. This sat well enough alongside all of the other misconceptions he never bothered to correct.

Then again, his role as Arch-Mage was likely only so distrusted because of his own secrecy. He did his best to keep his affairs out of the public eye, and now his robes represented a position worth no particular respect. A small price to pay, he'd have liked to believe.

The effect of this anonymity was that, during his southerly journey, Savos garnered no particular interest from passersby. The journey was on foot, over roads where there were any, and things went peacefully enough. He bothered no one, and no one bothered him—this must have been at least partly due to good luck. Mzulft lay far along on the mountainous border of Eastmarch. Thousands of Dunmer had fled here following the calamity in Morrowind, and it was no coincidence that the Nords' hatred for his kind was the strongest in this very hold.

Still, the trek to Mzulft passed without incident, and soon enough, Savos stood before the steps to the ruin. This was an inherently odd thing to say. The Dwemer had consistently built their cities underground. One would think that he would need to travel deep into the earth, but no—the entrance to Mzulft was _above _him. This seemed to be common enough with mountainside ruins in general.

In fact, this configuration, with stairs leading up to an underground entrance, was not new to him. He had visited such a place before, once.

This was no time to think about such things. Savos pushed the intruding ideas to the back of his mind and carried on.

With casual aplomb (and no small amount of restoration magic to soothe his aching feet), Savos began strolling up the ancient steps. They could not be referred to as a staircase, simply steps; there were countless individual staircases, all very short, bridged by gentle slopes of grass, passing by stone pillars and beneath arches, all of which stood supporting nothing but themselves. Here and there, along the route, lay massive solid stone structures whose purpose was lost to the fog of history. The Dunmer had not yet even entered the ruin, but his internal archaeologist was already transfixed with glee at all the stonework.

After a few arches, there was a fork in the path. To the right, there was a large, freestanding structure, whose entrance doors were below a thick, ornate roof, not unlike a Dwemer lift. But the doors were solid, not barred, and the structure was far too large. It was likely some manner of guardhouse, or perhaps storage.

To the left, high above, beyond yet more of these steps, there lay a stone tower, framed by the enormity of the mountain behind it, and the trees just before him. There seemed to be steam blowing copiously into the air from some broken pipes on and near the tower. What good were conduits of steam up here? There was no machinery for them to power. Savos suspected that the pipes being broken had not even inflicted any negative effect on anything. Small wonder the Dwemer had died out, with their wherewithal and intellect used up on pointless machinery.

In any case, he was obviously meant to bear left, and thus he did.

It turned out that there was quite a bit more than a tower here, and quite a bit less, at the same time. The tower itself was of no use. It had no entrance, no windows, no function, so on that count, no surprise. But it was surrounded by massive walls and pillars built into the rock, and immediately to its right was another pair of doors.

This one, for lack of a better option, Savos entered. He had explored Dwemer ruins before. This would be no challenge, or so he hoped, at least.

The moment he pushed open the doors, he was hit by what felt like a solid wall of humid heat. There was a great spacious hallway ahead, supported by pillars, with an ascending ramp in the distance. The entire stretch was brightly lit with ceaselessly burning lamps. This was, indeed, the handiwork of the deep elves.

But what stood out the most was what lay at Savos' feet. A skeleton, heavily decayed, dead for at least a year—and wearing the robes of the Synod. So that was what had come of their expedition here. Some surprise that was. They had come to him, to his College, many months past, inquiring about Skyrim's assortment of magical artifacts. They had left empty-handed, of course, besides his giving them a stern warning regarding the dangers of the province's ancient ruins. Clearly, he had wasted his breath.

There was nothing to do but press onward. Savos closed the doors behind him. It would not do for him to be followed in by some sabre cat or pack of wolves. After all, he had no use for dead animals.

Among his first acts was to cast a spell of mage armor upon himself, but strangely, as he traveled deeper into the ruin, no automatons emerged to attack him. For that matter, among the various pointless pipes and gears protruding from the floor and walls, there were scraps of metal, twisted and bent. Someone had destroyed the automatons here, and recently. It was not unheard of for Dwemer machinery to, following the arrival and departure of some violent adventurer, deploy additional automatons to repair and rebuild the ones destroyed. In fact, for ruins of this size, it was essentially required.

Savos' good fortune lasted him all the way to the first pair of doors. By this point, he had been walking for perhaps ten minutes. He'd passed through oppressive corridors and spacious rooms alike, all of them empty, all of them essentially safe. This seemed to be where most of the residents of Mzulft had once lived. There were countless small doors off to side areas, but he ignored them.

At one point, he encountered an area that had been overtaken by soil and vegetation, littered with corpses of Falmer and Synod alike. Still, no living enemies. He passed through without so much as a skeever to fight. But then he opened that pair of doors, and lo and behold, there was his first new friend of the day.

In its dormant state, the dwarven sphere, as it was commonly referred to, was a twitching, steaming, ball-shaped collection of metal plates, perhaps two feet in diameter. But when it detected an intruder, the automaton unfolded, and out came a spindly humanoid form, standing around as tall as Savos himself. One arm ended with a plain, utilitarian blade, and the other with a mechanical crossbow. The sphere-shell retained just enough plates to let it roll along, and that was precisely what it did, with alarming celerity, right at the Arch-Mage.

This scenario would perfectly demonstrate the nature of mages. In order to use their power in combat, there existed an entire school of magic labeled 'destruction'. It was plainly designed to be easily learned and used, with simple, straightforward categorizations: Destruction magic allowed a mage to project any of the three energy types, those being fire, frost and shock. In addition, each and every destruction spell had a version in all three types. This allowed mages to exhibit versatility, renewability, and deadly effectiveness.

Except that it did not. Destruction magic was easy to learn, easy to use, and accordingly, painfully easy to counter. The restoration school's ward spells allowed for destruction spells to be absorbed harmlessly. Various beings—especially atronachs—were stronger or weaker against various energy types, requiring mages to either waste their time practicing too many spells, or fear the day they faced the wrong sort of enemy. There were potions and enchantments alike to bolster the user's resistance to any energy type they desired, or against all magical effects—a sufficiently strongly enchanted ring, for example, could make the wearer entirely immune to shock damage. Destruction was a school for those who did not take magic seriously.

And so despite his decades of experience, which sufficed to let him master every destruction spell for which a tome existed, Savos Aren's spell of choice was from another school of magic entirely.

As the sphere closed in on him, Savos quickly backpedaled, back through the double doors, into the previous room. He raised one hand in the sphere's direction, and at that exact moment, it discharged its crossbow straight at him.

It was as though the bolt had been launched underwater. It sped through the air, then suddenly slowed down, coming to an utter halt not six inches from Savos' palm, from which a deep orange aura emanated.

The sphere, being an automaton, cared not for the spectacle, and continued its advance. Its blade was mere seconds away from Savos' chest. With a slow, almost lazy turn of the wrist, the elf turned the bolt to face away from him, and then flicked his fingers outward.

There was a loud, metallic thud. The top half of the sphere's body tipped backwards and landed on the floor. The bottom half continued rolling until it bumped gently against Savos' leg.

Ahead, there were more upward ramps, and more tortuous stone corridors, until he eventually reached another Falmer area. Even without corpses littering the floor, the air here seemed… Tainted, perhaps, in some fashion. And truth be told, he could not tell whether this had once been an actual Dwemer-built area, or if the Falmer had tunneled it themselves—though when he was winding his way through a tunnel so small he had to duck his head to avoid the hanging moss, he was inclined to believe the latter.

In this area, the only illumination was actual firelight. Someone had placed stone braziers here, and they were still burning, obviously enchanted to continue doing so indefinitely. Savos supposed that had to be the Synod's doing. The only other possible culprits, the Falmer, were not known to care about visibility. Perhaps he owed the Synod some measure of thanks. The candlelight spell was patently inadequate for navigating pitch-black caves.

Before long, Savos reached a chamber large enough to contain a freestanding hut. This area was lit with the signature cyan haze of glowing mushrooms, a lucky staple of the Falmer. The hut was obviously fashioned from the chaurus carapaces, and just nearby lay a few mounds of egg sacs, but there were still no living beings to be found.

So far, Savos had encountered only one functioning automaton, and no Falmer whatsoever. This came as something of a surprise, for in these ruins, the Falmer always repopulated far more quickly than the machinery repaired itself. To prevent them from breeding, someone would have had to exterminate every single one of the feral creatures in their hiding places. Whoever it had been, the Arch-Mage wished to congratulate their thoroughness.

The following passages were lit with a worrying mix of glowing mushrooms and burning braziers. The Synod had reached quite far into Falmer territory, it seemed, before their eventual defeat. But soon enough, he had spotted an entrance to a proper Dwemer passage, and he took his leave of the overgrown area with palpable relief. None of this place was particularly secure, but something about that last stretch had stirred a profound sense of disquiet.

Many of the doorways in this section had caved in. Savos took the only route he could, through a great corridor lit by a central chandelier, past a pair of what he could only assume were massive boiler tanks, past a closed door off to the right… Something was amiss with that door. The elf recast his mage armor and approached it for a closer look.

The door was locked. No matter. A handy application of telekinesis, and the lock undid itself. Really, Savos was more concerned with what a locked door meant here. Either some adventurer had locked it behind them, which made no sense, or it had been locked for quite some time. He opened the doors with one hand, a spell readied in the other.

Something filled his vision. Something large, and dark, and _fast_. It slammed into his chest, knocked him onto his back, started gnashing at him with terrible mandibles. Savos grabbed one mouthpart in either hand, just to keep them away from his neck. With a grunt of exertion, he rolled, twisted out from under the creature, tried to regain his footing, but as he broke free, the beast lashed out and struck his forearm.

The bite could have severed his limb entirely, were it not for the mage armor. Instead, it just barely gouged into his skin, and only for a second—he brought his free hand around, and planted a spike of ice in what passed for the chaurus' brain. Its jaws slackened, his arm came free. Even if he disdained destruction magic as a whole, there was nothing else that could quite do _that_.

It felt as though his forearm were burning. He'd become inured to physical pain long ago, but chaurus venom was a nasty thing indeed. As he proceeded through the doors, he absentmindedly dual-cast a healing spell on himself until the pain subsided.

This appeared to have once been a bedroom. A stone bed lay on the far end of the chamber, and on the right was a table and chair, also stone. Savos wasn't entirely sure how this chaurus had even gotten in here, but it must have been starving, the poor beast. Finding nothing of note, however, he simply turned on his heel and continued on his way. A pity. He'd discovered a locked room in a Dwemer ruin, and there hadn't been any priceless enchanted apparel inside.

The next area appeared to be some sort of reservoir, but it was nearly depleted. The water was only a few inches high. Pipes and pillars projected from within, and Savos was tempted to sit and study their function, but his internal archaeologist would simply have to wait. He circled around the reservoir on the stone ledges, and continued up some stairs to one more corridor. This brought him to his next set of double doors.

Another ramp upwards, quite long this time, and then Savos found himself passing beneath an arch made of a continuous pipe, from one wall to another. This seemed vaguely familiar. He recalled having read about such a peculiar piping arrangement once, but it might not have even been for this ruin. If it were, then the next room would be… The biggest he had seen thus far. A huge, ornate atrium, lit with three separate chandeliers, and held up by lavishly decorated pillars. Perhaps, once, it had been pleasing to the eye, but over the centuries, the room had been sullied with broken masonry, piles of rubble, and if he was not mistaken, a Falmer hut, off to the left. So much for Dwemer longevity.

There were three exits to this atrium. The left exit was at the top of some broad staircases and platforms. The right exit traveled off someplace, he knew not where. The far exit was irrelevant. The corridor beyond had caved in some time ago. To add insult to injury, iit looked like the Falmer had been using the remaining corridor segment for storage space.

Every time he had ventured deeper into Mzulft thus far, Savos had, in defiance of all common sense, needed to travel upwards. Given what he was searching for, he had a fair idea of why, but still, the logic remained. Mzulft's farthest end was likely its highest point. Accordingly, in choosing between left and right, he decided on the door that required stairs to reach.

When Savos reached the next passage, he froze. Here was a staircase, upwards, of course, with a smooth ramp going up the middle, and a visible seam in its center. This was a standard placement for a rotating blade trap. His instinct told him to stay right where he was.

But still, he approached, and found no pressure plates—in fact, the seam was simply that, the line at which two rows of bricks met. There was no slot for a blade contraption to travel along. As he ascended, he noticed that the doorway arch ahead was adorned with one of the Dwemer's signature metal face sculptures, staring down at him from above. He hurried into the next room right away.

The next room, as it turned out, was a corridor. To the left, there was a smaller, secondary passage, leading to a pair of double doors, but up ahead, there was a doorway to what appeared to be a solid metallic _wall_. Finally, he had reached his destination.

As he approached the doorway, Savos passed by a few bedrolls, and baskets and barrels filled with food long since spoiled. Had the Synod really made it this far? He was impressed, after a fashion. They hadn't been the ones to clear this place of enemies, or they would have been alive, not all slaughtered back near the entrance. It left him quite puzzled.

The wall turned out to be, as he had predicted, part of a truly massive sphere of dwarven metal, studded here and there with blue-green lenses. It took up nearly all of the space in the chamber it occupied, and he had to circle around it to ascend the ramp to the next level.

This was an oculory. A device so large that it required its own dedicated chamber, which manipulated what must have been sunlight in order to achieve a desired effect. After all these ascents, Savos reasoned that they were either very close to the surface, or actually aboveground, which would be quite needed for proper natural light. There was some irony, he supposed, to be found—Mzulft was crammed with pipes, gears and the like with no evident function, but the one device whose capability he cared about was a mystery to him.

In Mzulft's case, the desired effect of the oculory was to project a map of Tamriel, and on this map would be the locations of all artifacts of significant magical power. They would appear like stars on the night sky, at least in theory. In practice, with the Staff of Magnus somewhere in Skyrim, it would drown out all of the other auras like the sun itself. He would only have to look for one dot.

This was how he would locate his old enemy. This great, ancient machine was the key. All he had to do was climb this one final ramp.

Savos had seen many things in his lifetime, things that would render the average elf speechless with awe. Few things managed to inspire such feelings in him these days. He had just come across one of those few. This room was a great, single dome, but its features were lost on him. The only thing that he had eyes for was the _light_. Great, thick, piercingly bright beams of solid white light, coming down from the ceiling, crisscrossing between lenses, pointing a brilliant ray at the far wall.

Upon the wall in question, indeed, there was a map of Tamriel. There were white lines for provinces' boundaries; the political boundaries may have been slightly out of date, but Skyrim was plainly at top and center. There were inverted V shapes for mountains, and there was an exceptionally large one at the location of the Throat of the World.

But as for the dot... Indeed, there was only one. It seemed to be on the border between Skyrim and Morrowind, perhaps a tiny bit west—

Mzulft. The Staff of Magnus was at Mzulft.


	13. Odahviing 2

**Trigger warning: This chapter contains explicit depiction of what amounts to physical abuse. **

Sundas, 12:00 PM, 29th of First Seed, 4E 202

Mzulft

Dragons were not known to panic. It simply wasn't in their nature. It would take a truly unnatural thing for a creature like Odahviing to succumb to fear.

So when he heard that Konahrik's mask was back in the world, Odahviing's first reaction was simple surprise. Alduin had done a perfect job of purging that mortal from history. No one should have even remembered Konahrik's name. Odahviing himself had been forbidden from so much as saying it. And yet Morokei was at large, and wearing that terrible mask.

Still, there was no point in fearing this. It was true that with Alduin defeated, they had lost the very being who had stopped Konahrik himself so long ago. And it was still true, in kind, that there was no one to bring the dragons back if they were killed now. But the Dragonborn had sent him on a simple mission. He was on a flight over to Mzulft, almost at the end of the trip. It was a standard there-and-back, this was no challenge to him.

The mountain range had been on the horizon for some time. He thought he could see the Dwemer rooftops from here, high up among the trees.

It was strange, how much things had changed. Once, Odahviing's attitude had been considered reckless even by his own kind. But then that promise of immortality had simply ceased to be, as though the wings had vanished from his back. He wished he were still with Paarthurnax. Of all the dragons in Skyrim, he seemed to understand the current state of things the best.

Still, in the meantime, there was a war-torn world to try to oversee. Not conquer, not control, but oversee. This was plainly another thing that had changed. Had dragons not been meant to rule this world as they saw fit? Now they deferred to a man who had no interest in such domination.

Suddenly, pain. A sickening jolt spread across Odahviing's body. He barely even realized that something had happened to him. His view was spinning, dropping, out of control. He wanted to steady his flight, but it was impossible. The pain was focusing, concentrating on one wing. It took a few seconds for him to realize that one of its bones was broken.

He supposed he should have seen this coming.

Odahviing's back landed on something hard. There was a deafening crack. His spine felt like the Throat of the World had landed on it. Then his back landed again, this time on dirt. His body felt so broken. He could hardly move at all. The pain was so overpowering. He couldn't even focus his voice enough to express it.

When the dragon opened his eyes, he realized he'd managed to crash straight through a stone arch. Excellent, he'd made it to Mzulft.

Then a voice called out. Not a dragon's voice, nor that of any living mortal. Odahviing had not heard this voice since a lifetime ago.

_"Odahviing. It is a pleasure to see you once more."_

This was… Alarming, to say the least. Still, Odahviing did not panic. He folded his intact right wing against himself, then rolled onto his belly. It felt like the damaged left wing had been struck very near its base. A short measure to the side, and that attack would have broken his ribcage.

Standing not twenty feet in front of him, there stood a dragon priest. A dragon priest wearing a golden mask. Elongated chin, tusks on either side—Odahviing recognized it instantly. This mask was not meant to still exist.

Out of sheer instinct, Odahviing let out a searing jet of flame from his maw. It engulfed the dragon priest instantly, burning hot enough to char the earth itself to ash. And when it ended, the dragon priest was… Still standing right there, utterly unharmed, surrounded by smoldering ground. It was worth a try, at least.

_"Do not do that,"_ the dragon priest said, eerily calmly.

_"Morokei,"_ he more growled than spoke. _"What are you doing?"_

His wing was still throbbing with pain. Even with dragons' quick healing, it would take time for such a wound to heal. More time than he suspected he had.

_"Returning to the world, Odahviing."_ The dragon priest made a sweeping gesture with his arm. In his hand was an ancient, pronged staff, adorned with a turquoise stone at its head. That was harder to identify by sight, but Odahviing had been warned of it. He knew exactly what that staff was.

_"I meant, what are you doing here?"_

_"Looking for the Eye of Magnus,"_ Morokei said matter-of-factly. _"I visited Saarthal, but it had been removed from its resting place. I came here to locate it."_

The Eye of Magnus. In Saarthal. Truthfully, Odahviing had not known there was anything of note buried there. But he didn't entirely care. As long as Morokei was talking to him, he wasn't in danger of being killed right away. A persuasive cause to continue talking.

_"I suppose you're no longer interested in serving your masters,"_ Odahviing said.

Morokei let out a bark of laughter_. "My masters! Look at yourself. Alduin is gone. The only one of your number we ever truly served, and he has been defeated by a mere mortal."_

_"That doesn't change—"_

_"Do you realize how long I have desired to do this? Here I stand, a dragon—the great Odahviing, right hand to Alduin himself—at my mercy. Perhaps your kind should have treated the dragon priests with more respect. Then Konahrik might not have turned on you."_

Odahviing stared. Had the dragon priests always been so taken by madness? He had not seen a single one since the time of the Dragon War, but his memory served him well enough. Besides Konahrik, the remaining eight dragon priests had always been loyal servants.

_"You have gained no power, Morokei. You wield artifacts that do not belong to you. Anyone can do what you are doing."_

Morokei looked down at his staff, then back up at the dragon before him. _"That's right. But you would rather I have no power at all, wouldn't you? You would rather my own subordinates have more power than me."_

This was somewhat true. Mortal followers of Alduin had been granted limited powers of the Voice during the opening stages of the Dragon War, to hold against the Tongues whom Paarthurnax had trained. But Alduin had, in essence, cursed the dragon priests to never learn so much as a single word of power. He had expected this to prevent them from ever rebelling.

And yet Konahrik had done just that. No one had ever explained to Odahviing just how that happened. His peers had been too busy erasing that priest from history.

_"That was Alduin's decision, not mine. I have expected the dragon priests to do their duty." _Odahviing paused._ "Is this your duty now?"_

_"I can respect that."_ Morokei was walking up to him, slowly. Deep inside himself, Odahviing felt a strange, gripping sensation that he could only describe as terror. Something was about to happen.

His voice came as a low, rumbling near-whisper. _"What are you doing?"_

_"That could be taken in two ways."_ The dragon priest was standing so close that Odahviing's eyes could no longer converge on him. _"One is what I am doing right now. At this very moment."_

That forbidden golden mask reappeared right in front of Odahviing's right eye. It took up most of his vision. A cold, dry hand was brushing over the scales of his neck. An involuntary, fleeting tremor seized his body.

_"I could kill you right now,"_ Morokei murmured. _"I could peel the scales from your body, one by one…"_

Something pinched sharply beneath his jaw. There was a sickening cracking sound, and suddenly, Morokei was holding a bloodstained gray scale up in front of Odahviing's eye. That was his own scale. That was part of his body!

And Morokei simply tossed it over his shoulder. That other hand was still stroking the dragon's neck, almost tenderly.

_"Until you simply bled to death… But I wouldn't do that. I'd rather have you alive for the thousand other things I could do to you."_

Odahviing's voice came with great effort. He had spent a long time with war, and fighting, and carnage. He had never felt so _exposed._ There was no defense against this mortal. He was at Morokei's mercy. And that meant more pain would come, and… There wasn't anything Odahviing could do about it. He couldn't measure his feelings. He could hardly speak. _"Why…?"_

Morokei crooned under his breath as his hands explored Odahviing's body. It felt so wrong. This was even worse than the broken wing. At least that had been fast. _"How does it feel, Odahviing? How does it feel? … I would like to say this is how it felt to be under your rule, but truly… This is a mere sliver of such comeuppance."_

There was nothing to say. Why hadn't he been blessed with Paarthurnax's command of ideas? Perhaps there was something he could say, something, anything to make Morokei just _stop doing that_…

_"I could do so much worse, you realize."_ And he was still talking. _"I want you alive, I want you intact, for now… But you should know that you deserve this. Not for anything you have done, or anything you will do… But because you are weak."_

He wanted Odahviing alive? This was a surprise. The dragon had assumed this was all leading up to an eventual attempt to finish him off. But… Honestly, Odahviing was unsure whether this was good news. He wanted to simply go hide in a cave or something now. Someplace safe, someplace far away from here. But he couldn't even fly.

Again, all Odahviing could do was ask_, "Why?"_

_"That's very simple."_ Morokei was still speaking almost right into Odahviing's ear_. "I want you to return to Paarthurnax. I want you to tell him about what has happened today, and… That I advise him to warn the other dragons of me."_

Maybe, in another frame of mind, Odahviing would have been able to study this request. Or was it a command? He would have been able to study it, and figure out what Morokei wanted to accomplish, or… Something. He didn't know. Right now, all his mind had room for was that horrible gripping feeling inside him. He knew something was coming, he knew it, but…

_"Very well,"_ Odahviing said, quietly. _"I will go to Paarthurnax. I will bring this news to him."_

_"Good."_ Morokei moved back away from him. He was reaching behind his back, pulling something forth. It was outside Odahviing's vision. _"Just remember, if you're thinking of subverting my directions… Remember that I can do this."_

And the prongs of the Staff of Magnus jammed right beneath Odahviing's chin.

Searing, snapping pain, all through his body, all at once. It was too much to bear. Everything was getting fuzzy. It was like he'd just been struck hard in the head, but it wasn't going away. It was too much to think.

All he could tell was that he was hurting. He could hardly even remember why. He couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't speak… It might never stop, but he couldn't bear it, there was just so much pain. It didn't make sense. It hurt, it hurt so much, there was nothing else.

_"Oh, yes… Yes!"_ Morokei laughed. Odahviing could barely hear it over the sound of the staff doing its evil work. This horrible, hissing noise, filling his ears, filling his skull. It sounded so wrong.

Things were slipping away. The pain was there, but he couldn't even identify it anymore. The noise stopped sounding real. There was a strange, tinny ringing in his head. His sense of balance was gone, his vision was getting dark, getting spotty. And there was this horrible… Feeling. It felt like his body was ceasing to work. This must have been what dying felt like.

And then it was over. Odahviing was laying flat on his belly. That strange ringing wasn't quite fading. Where was he? This was in Eastmarch, yes? In the fourth era, year 202. What was going on here?

Morokei was standing right in front of him. That was it, then. He'd just been drained somehow, or something. His thoughts were so disarrayed.

_"Oh, that is simply… You do not know how good this feels."_ Morokei stretched out and made a vibrant noise, staff still in hand. _"Yes… That's perfect."_

Odahviing couldn't get himself to move. His muscles were still working, but he couldn't control them correctly. Morokei was walking back up to him. What now? Did he change his mind about keeping Odahviing alive? That would be good.

No, that was wrong. He wasn't supposed to think that. He wanted to live, he didn't want this to be the end or something, this wasn't… He couldn't think. This was so horrible. No one should have been enduring this experience.

Morokei stopped a few paces away. His posture had returned to a dragon priest's regal composure. He looked down at Odahviing through his mask's slitted eyes_. "You are weak, Odahviing. You and your kind have all lost your way."_ He gestured to his staff. _"You deserved this. I suspect that you have not learned your lesson, but even if you will not accept the truth of power, I hope you still wish to survive."_

There really was no stopping this, was there?

_"Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find the Eye of Magnus."_


	14. Eredra 3

Middas, 11:10 AM, 25th of First Seed, 4E 202

Orphan Rock

The Thalmor might have been the most dysfunctional institution in world history, but credit where credit was due: they had a fantastic intelligence network.

Eredra had been at Sleeping Tree Camp for two and a half weeks. She'd had time to requisition enchanted civilian clothes for the elves on site, bring some of the mages from her command over from Markarth, manhandle Major Asmo some more, sketch some pictures of the tree with paper and charcoal, and generally try to make things pleasant and low-key.

Still, two and a half weeks' worth of constant healing spells, and the Sleeping Tree had barely even reacted. It'd sealed up the hole the spigot had been plugged into, and that was basically it. Eredra's reports to General Colaeon were not optimistic. Not that she minded this assignment, but they couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, someone would figure out that they weren't actually a nature-loving tree cult or whatever.

But then, just this last week, in came a courier with a sealed reply from Colaeon himself. It turned out that he'd already set his spies on digging around for how to heal a tree. Really, that was what he'd done. And it turned out that the fellows over at the temple of Kynareth, in Whiterun, had already looked into the same thing. Their pet tree outside, the Gildergreen, had been dying for some reason. They'd wanted to heal it using the sap of the ancient tree it'd been grown from. The only catch was that the ancient tree was the Eldergleam, and the edges that could pierce its bark were few and far between.

Some random traveler had somehow gotten the Eldergleam to help out peacefully, though, so no one had gone to fetch any of those edges. The only one anybody knew about was a dagger called Nettlebane, which Eredra thought was a humiliating name for a weapon. Nettles? Really? Anyway, no one had bothered to fetch the dagger from its current owners.

She'd been rereading Colaeon's letter for days now. One line in particular had stood out to her. Apparently, one of their spies had actually spoken to a priestess in Whiterun, one Danica Pure-Spring, about the Gildergreen. In response to the issue of it being so lifeless before, she had said:

"_Trees like this never really die. They only slumber."_

Fitting, wasn't it?

It was crazy, too. Eredra remembered sitting under the branches of the Gildergreen, just a few weeks ago, when she'd been chatting with that imbecile from the Silver Hand. The doors to the temple of Kynareth had been a stone's throw away from her seat. Talk about a small world.

So now she was walking through Falkreath Hold, of all places.

This path actually went straight across the southern slope of the Throat of the World. It was rocky, and sometimes icy, and never particularly flat. Today, everything was covered in a miserable overcast fog. The moisture clung to every solid surface there was, made the ground dangerously slippery. If only there were a spell for better traction.

Plus, she'd passed by Helgen not too long ago, which was just plain spooky. There hadn't even been enough survivors from Alduin's attack to rebuild the place. It was a present-day Nordic ruin.

On the bright side, two of her hand-picked lieutenants from Markarth had come along with her. Lusay and Darco. They were both from that pool of seasoned veterans who chose more chances of combat over promotions. Did she trust them with her life? Probably not really. But at least she didn't think they were idiotic numbskulls like most Thalmor mages.

"Commander, look," said Lusay. She was pointing at a tree branch just off the path. A rounded, gnarled piece of wood, adorned with glowing green swirls and veins, hung on a length of twine from an outer limb.

That was a taproot. The magical core that animated a spriggan's body. The thing was even sort of shaped like a human heart. And the moment Eredra laid eyes on it, she fired up a mage armor spell. Her two companions followed suit.

Nettlebane's current owner, by Colaeon's account, was a hagraven. Repulsive creatures, hagravens, but surprisingly good with magic, and utterly in love with killing spriggans. They just hated nature or something. This taproot was here as bait.

From somewhere in the trees, there was an unnatural-sounding _whoosh_. Eredra ducked and rolled without even thinking. The fireball burst against a rock face behind her. Time to fight, then.

This was a good time for her instincts to kick in. Failing that, she could have afforded to be a little worried. But all she could think was… Already? They were under attack already? How helpless did they look? Maybe they should've brought their uniforms after all.

Another fireball came flying out of the brush. Lusay blocked it with a shimmering ward, then replied with a lightning bolt. It probably missed. In this fog, everything past the first few trees was out of sight.

Eredra threw down a summon for a storm atronach, then put up a ward of her own. Half a second later, another fireball splashed over it. For a split second, her whole field of vision was filled with blinding flame. That was too close. The price she paid for being a one-handed mage. Only one spell at a time.

Darco had a ward up as well, but with his free hand, he was casting something else. An alteration spell. Four hazy red auras appeared ahead of them, beyond the trees, shining through the fog. Three were on the ground, and the fourth was high up on a huge boulder.

Good work, Darco.

The atronach busily set to work on the nearest one. This couldn't take too long. It was a handful of random witches versus three Thalmor mages. Not much of a contest. Besides the fireballs flying at them through the fog.

That nearest aura winked out of existence. Good work, atronach.

Honestly, Eredra hadn't expected to make it here already. The paths around the Throat of the World were so easy to get lost on. But if that taproot was any sign, this was truly Orphan Rock, so she had to guess that that fourth aura up there was the hagraven. Which meant…

"Lusay! Target up top!" Eredra's magicka was almost empty. She ducked behind the biggest rock she could, took a moment to just breathe. Her lieutenants were doing a fantastic job, but these witches were turning out to be stronger than she'd thought. It must've been the hagraven. There were fireballs everywhere, huge ones, scorching the ground left and right. Her atronach was already falling apart.

Instead of saying anything in response, Lusay just summoned a bound bow in her hand. She produced something from a pocket, passed her free hand over the ethereal arrowhead, then took aim. Darco moved in front of her with a ward up. His alteration spell was still running. He must have had one or two seconds of magicka left.

Lusay's arrow soared straight over the other lieutenant's shoulder, through the air, into the trees. There was a terrible, squawking shriek from up ahead. A half second later, the red aura on top of the rock vanished.

The remaining two auras went away a split second later. Eredra hauled herself back up and cast the same spell. The auras were moving apart, and quickly. The witches were running away.

"Lusay," she said.

Two more arrows, one after the other. The lieutenant didn't even budge from where she stood. There were no more red auras.

Eredra released the detection spell and started walking ahead. The first witch's body was sprawled out right at the edge of the trees. It was maybe thirty feet ahead of the base of the big rock.

"How do you suppose they get on top of this thing?" Darco came up beside her, scratching at the back of his head.

It was sort of a stupid question, but that was how Darco was. Here they were, on a mission whose ultimate goal was to end mortal existence entirely, something that should have had them all quaking with excitement, or at least maybe a bit solemn or something. And they'd just killed three witches and a hagraven, too.

But Darco just kept on like normal, asking stupid questions. From anyone else, it would've been infuriating.

"Let's circle around," Eredra answered without looking. "Lusay?"

"With you, Commander," she said from a few feet behind.

The rock was barely any wider than it was tall. Steep, craggy surfaces, and no way up them, until they came to a fallen tree trunk acting as a sort of ramp to a lower hill. There were stone braziers here and there, but their flames had died down to depressing little embers.

On the far side of the 'bridge', on top of Orphan Rock, there was a single tent adorned with some bony thing or other at the apex, and next to it, an enchanting table, freestanding, right there out in the open. The hagraven's horrid little feathered corpse was draped over a rocky crest nearby, right on top of a dark red puddle.

"Watch your step," Eredra said, then started out onto the mossy wood.

In this weather, the whole surface was as slippery as ice. Her uniform boots had some good treads to them, they might've taken some hold, but these commoner's shoes were smooth-soled. She had to hold her arms out to the sides and just try not to look down.

Strictly speaking, the lieutenants didn't have to follow her over. She was just going over to retrieve a knife. Definitely a one-person job. But there was a reason the Thalmor liked to travel in groups of three. Splitting up, especially across an obstacle like this one, sort of ruined that.

"What I'd do for some cleats right now," Darco murmured.

"What _would_ you do for some cleats right now?" asked Lusay.

"I'm actually considering just crawling for this one."

"No, answer the question."

Eredra hop-skipped the rest of the way across the tree trunk. She almost lost her balance, then basically fell forwards on one knee to get to solid ground. Not exactly graceful, but… The sooner she could get this done, the better.

To be frank, she didn't like this place. She didn't like the weather, she didn't like the hagraven's little den… She definitely didn't like the fact that such a tiny geographical feature as Orphan Rock had a commonly known name. Nords were so inconsistent.

Of course, her lieutenants politely ignored her. They were good like that.

Darco made a low, contemplative noise. "… In order to get some cleats right now… I'd wear a horrible peasant outfit made of Divines-know-what, and, uh… Go around on foot all week in some… Bleak backwater stretch of Skyrim, _oh wait_."

Eredra glanced behind herself. The two of them had made it onto the rock after her, they were standing chatting it up. Standing on watch, of course, scanning the surroundings for any more witches, but still.

She left them to that, and started over towards the hagraven. This wasn't going to be fun. Handling a dead freak of magic with her bare hand.

"Well, look, it could be worse," said Lusay. "We could be back at the Sleeping Tree place. No uniforms, and the most idiotic pasty-faced officers—"

"—that the Dominion could manage to scrape off the bottom of its boot for us, yes, but at least we weren't playing balance beam like one of those teamwork exercises."

"No, when you do the teamwork things you're usually holding hands or something. You know, so that you can take the others with you if you fall."

"Or how about when you, uh… When you have to keep a ball in the air, going back and forth between people, and there's always that one jackass who's trying to use telekinesis, and it ends up hitting someone in the face, and they get a bloody nose and the teacher comes over and everyone gets in trouble—"

Lusay made a choking sound. "Wh- what-wait-no what- wh- what kind of school did you even go to?"

"The kind where all the kids want to show up their friends and you end up with people falling off roofs and breaking their tailbones and—"

"This is just making me have more questions, Darco."

He had a point, too, mages' schools started at an alarmingly early age in Alinor. They were supposed to get a normal education too, which obviously went excellently all the time.

Eredra rolled the hagraven's body onto its back with her foot. This had been a regular woman, at one point. Probably a Nord, one of those types who just really wanted to do magic. But now she was just… Something hideous. Like a sick parody of an old crone, plus feathers stuck on in random clusters. Her limbs were gangly and bony, her posture permanently hunched. Her hands were bizarrely long talon-like appendages. Some woman had willingly turned herself into this.

It was sort of understandable, too. These creatures had magic to rival even Aldmeri mages.

Not long ago, in the Reach, the group that had been known as the Forsworn had treated the region's hagravens like royalty. Then the 14th Unit had slaughtered them all and turned the entire Reach to rubble. Little covens like these, scattered here and there around Skyrim, were probably the only places hagravens still existed. Eredra didn't mind that.

It looked like all the blood had come from a wound in the hagraven's belly. A fatal wound, certainly, but Eredra was certain it would have been negated with healing magic. Fortunately, Lusay had given her spectral arrow a dose of poison. Extremely potent poison, at that.

Eredra wasn't entirely sure what to look for. She just checked over the clothing and such for a knife handle, essentially. There didn't seem to be one. This didn't make sense. Nettlebane was the sort of thing that creatures like this would treasure.

Eventually, she found what must have been a leather scabbard, no more than seven inches long. It was empty.

"The blade isn't on her," she said, loud enough for the two others to hear. "Help me check around."

"Yes, ma'am," said Darco. Both lieutenants started scanning over different parts of the rock, intent scowls on their faces.

"Actually, Lusay, a question. I didn't realize you'd been authorized to use jarrin root poison. When did that happen?"

"What? No. Do you mean the poison I used earlier? I just bought that on the open market. I think the Dragonborn made it, originally."

Eredra frowned. "He's an alchemist?"

"Apparently, that's how he got rich. Selling potions and poisons."

"Hm." Ironic, in a way. Eredra didn't suppose the Dragonborn had expected his potions to end up being purchased by his enemies. He really should have known better than that.

While her lieutenants searched the rock, she headed over to the tent and started looking around inside. The hagraven had to have been sleeping here. There was some kind of bedroll on the ground, but not much else. It smelled strange in here. She ducked her head back out as soon as she was able.

"Commander!" Darco called out. "I've got something!"

Eredra hurried over to where the lieutenant stood, just behind the enchanting table. He seemed to be looking down over the edge at something.

At the foot of the rock, clustered together on the ground, there was a mass of long sticks and branches. It took a moment to recognize it as the lifeless body of a spriggan. A dark metal dagger had been shoved through the wooden curve of its chest.

So this was Nettlebane. The first step in a long mission to use Skyrim's ancient life to end all life. The key to the Altmer race's salvation. And Eredra had to pry it out of the chest of a hagraven's live sacrifice. Humble beginnings, she supposed.

Lusay walked up next to them. "So, who wants to go down there and fetch that damn thing?"

"I can't believe we crossed that tree thing for no reason," Darco muttered.

Eredra silently reached out with her hand. There was a brief glowing orange aura from her palm, and the dagger pried itself free and floated up into her grasp.

Just wielding this weapon gave her a strange sense of awe. It was an ebony dagger, or at least it was made like one—wavy blade, curved hilt, engraved decorations. But the metal was tinged an odd shade of dark green, if it could even be called metal. Holding it in her hand, it somehow managed to feel more like stone.

This was an ancient relic, doubtlessly used by hundreds of people for thousands of things over the ages, and yet it looked like it had just been forged. Utterly timeless.

"Just look at that," she murmured. "We've found Nettlebane."

Darco chose this moment to finally sober up. He addressed Eredra with a cold, professional sort of calm. "Commander, we should proceed immediately. It's very unlikely we've been followed here, or otherwise identified, but Sleeping Tree Camp isn't as mobile as we are."

Eredra nodded and shrugged off her leather backpack. As she spoke, she retrieved a rectangle of linen, then laid it out on the rock. She'd wrap the dagger in it for storage. "Agreed. Assuming neither of you are interested in staying to collect alchemy reagents or something, we'll be on our way. There's no reason for this whole thing to take more than ten minutes."

Darco turned on his heel and started back towards the tree, leaving Lusay to stand at attention by the commander. In comparison to her peer, she seemed quite at ease. "So we're moving on to Eastmarch, then?"

"That is where the sanctuary is," Eredra nodded. The linen wrap was easy to stow. Buttoning the backpack up with one hand, a little less so. She had the same problem trying to put on her uniform in the morning. It wasn't impossible, it just took forever. First she pushed one end of the button through, then brought her thumb around, then tugged on it…

All of a sudden, there was a wet scrabbling noise, and then a crashing thud. Eredra looked over her shoulder. Darco was nowhere to be seen.

The lieutenant's voice sounded from beneath the tree trunk. "Aaah… I need a towel!"

Eredra decided she didn't want to know, and just went back to her buttoning.

All right, maybe her lieutenants were a little goofy. But they were good at their jobs, she figured. And even if they weren't, this trip couldn't be that bad. If the whole world-ending scheme actually worked this time, she wouldn't have to go on another trip like this ever again.

If.

**This chapter is the first in this continuity to take place in Falkreath Hold. There has now been at least one chapter in every hold of Skyrim. And it only took 64 chapters for me to get around to Falkreath!  
**


	15. Savos 3

Sundas, 11:59 AM, 29th of First Seed, 4E 202

Mzulft

At the moment that Savos realized the location of the Staff of Magnus, two more realizations followed. The first was that Morokei must have been here to use this very device. There were no other machines of notable use in Mzulft. More importantly, Morokei was not here for Savos himself, for if he were, he would have come to Winterhold. Their convergence on this location had to be simply the cruelest caprice of the Divines in the Arch-Mage's entire lifetime.

The second was that the first had no significance at all. No matter what Morokei intended, it was all but certain that Savos was about to meet a grisly and painful death—which meant the odds were in his favor. That sliver of a chance of survival simply accounted for the possibility that Morokei might spare him. Savos chose not to imagine the tortures that might await him in that reach of fate.

So, this was to be his end. It was a strange feeling, knowing that these seconds were among his last. Savos had expected that, whenever it would have come to be, this moment would provoke some unbidden, primal sense of fear. But his heart was claimed only by a deep, aching sorrow.

There was so much he had left undone. He found himself yearning to return to the College, to speak to Mirabelle one last time. If nothing else, he would wish to offer the world some sort of parting gift, some way for his own death—by the Nine, he was thinking of his _own death_—to not be so futile. But now, Savos would not even live to see tomorrow. Indefensible as it must have been, this simply felt like the wrong time for him to depart.

Despite his long and many years, the elder elf had never come to any conclusion for how to spend his final moments alive. He had spent this time learning how to live, not how to die. It was tempting to simply allow Morokei to reach him here. It would have been easier on them both, he was sure. But rather than resign himself to waiting, he swallowed his grief and turned back to the ramp he had ascended mere moments ago. It was the only thing he could think of to actually do.

He returned to the corridor below in something of a trance. This could not have been truly happening. It was too extraordinary, too spectacular a misfortune. This must have been some sort of dream. But to err on the side of caution, he supposed it best to simply—

Now it was definitely a dream. His vision had taken on an ethereal blue tint. Motes of magic floated through the air like so many snowflakes, perhaps slower in motion. Savos noticed that the flames on the walls were transfixed mid-flicker. Perhaps Morokei had caught him by surprise, and this was the beginning of the afterlife?

"You're going to be all right, Savos," said a voice behind him.

Not the afterlife, then.

He turned to find another elf standing there—a Psijic monk! Savos would have recognized those robes anywhere. There was no making sense of this. Things were spiraling out of control faster and faster yet. It was likely still best to err for caution and simply do his best to act reasonable.

The best reply he could muster, however, was: "Have we met?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I was among those to remove the Eye of Magnus from your College." This was, of course, how Savos recognized his attire. The only fruit borne of that artifact was the chance to see the Psijics in person. "My name is Quaranir."

"A true pleasure. You may be aware that there is a dragon priest ready to kill me."

"There _was _a dragon priest, about two hours ago. You have been advanced through time. Morokei is long gone from Mzulft."

So he was going to live, then. This should have elicited some sort of reaction from him, he knew, but he was still struggling to address that this was, indeed, actually happening. Studying the arcane arts did little to prepare an elf for having his life toyed with.

The Dunmer rubbed his hand over his face a few times, eyes squeezed shut, before taking a breath and addressing his acquaintance once more. He remained in Mzulft, a Psijic monk remained before him, the corridor remained frozen in time, and so on. It seemed real enough.

"Thank you for this," he said quietly.

Quaranir offered a tiny shrug. "Your work here is not done."

"I did not know the Psijic Order was in the business of saving lives."

"Your work here is _very important._"

The two of them exchanged a stare.

"Well, concerning Morokei… My plans had not extended much further than determining his location for the Dragonborn to use. In my experience, mages such as myself fare poorly against a staff designed to absorb magic."

"True, though not insurmountable." The Psijic monk paused. "Savos Aren, I will address you as an equal in intellect. There are no spells available to you which can counteract the Staff of Magnus, but that is the least of your concern regarding this dragon priest. He has shown the world that he has returned, and now he will act quickly, as he expects us to."

Savos appreciated the strategic candor, but for what little he knew, Quaranir may have cut to the essence of things simply due to Savos' personal history with the dragon priest. He was sure the Psijics knew of that.

And if they did not: "Are you certain I am best suited for this? My last encounter with Morokei was… Less than fruitful."

"That was then." The words came with flat impassivity. Quaranir almost looked bored by the line of thought.

So yes, the Psijics were well aware of what had unfolded in Labyrinthian. Savos found it increasingly difficult to feel the shame of that debacle when Quaranir himself seemed so disinterested.

Still, the Altmer continued. "At this time, the resources at my command are incapable of assisting you. Morokei came here to locate the Eye of Magnus, presumably to reunite it with its staff. Fortunately, that was taken care of months ago, you know that. He will, naturally, change objectives. He has no pressing need for additional items of magical power, not with his mask."

"That is something I had meant to inquire about. What _is_ his mask?"

"Unfortunately, our knowledge of it, and of its power, is essentially nothing. The dragons did an immaculately thorough job of erasing Konahrik from history. Were it not for the Ebony Warrior's discovery, we would not even know its name."

"The Ebony Warrior," he repeated slowly. This title was entirely new to him, though on merit of pith alone, he rather liked it.

"The Dragonborn's older brother. He does exist, truly. He simply prefers to remain out of sight. He brought the Dragonborn the news of Morokei's escape, thus the letter sent to you."

The Dragonborn had an older brother! Savos nearly shuddered at the mere thought. This Ebony Warrior must have been a man of terrible power simply by blood, but to go unsung for so long? He must have been either prodigiously lazy, or a master of misdirection—and one of those possibilities seemed far more likely than the other. And this raised a whole new slew of questions, and… This was impossible. He could not think.

It seemed the Psijic mistook his stupefaction for comprehension, as he continued his speech as normal. "I suggest you travel to Helgen. It isn't much, but one of my sources has indicated that it may be of interest."

"Wait a moment. What about the dragon sent for me?"

"He survived, fear not, but he has departed as well. You will need to travel on foot."

Savos had been beginning to wonder why Quaranir was allowing the conversation to stretch on so long. This was more than saving his life. He now had a specific purpose, that being to travel to Helgen, for whatever reason. As far as he was aware, that place was known only for being the first target of Alduin upon his return.

This felt wrong, in a sense. This was no way to end their conversation. Savos was being sent off to investigate a ruined village, which sounded trivial enough—were it not part of a campaign specifically against Morokei, who, had Quaranir not intervened, would have effortlessly _killed_ him just now. To the best of his knowledge, whenever they might meet again in the future, that disparity in power would be unchanged.

"In all honesty, I've expected this whole crisis to be beyond my capabilities. This seems like something for the Dragonborn, or his brother, perhaps, or… Anyone who would stand some chance against Morokei." He paused. "That means not me."

Quaranir made a bare hint of a smile. "Never forget, Savos, that we all have our part to play."

And with that, there was a flash of light, and the Psijic monk vanished. Savos felt a forcible tug, not through his body, but through his mind—and then he was alone once again in the corridor of Mzulft. It was high time for him to leave.

Sure enough, that smaller, secondary passage, now on his right, lead to the outdoors; it came as no surprise at all that he was far, far above where he had started. This appeared to be some sort of observatory platform, hardly large enough for him to walk out onto. The wind whipped mercilessly through his commoner's clothing, bringing a chill to his skin so woeful that he removed his pack and donned his jacket right where he stood.

The climb back down the mountainside was a challenge in its own right, but also a merciful respite for his thoughts. He had scarcely begun to process what vicissitudes had just unfolded before his eyes. Morokei had arrived, the Psijic Order had stepped in… He couldn't even begin to fathom why.

It did occur to him that if Quaranir had not already known of his history with Morokei, it would have mattered little, as Savos had inadvertently betrayed it himself. He had commented that a dragon priest was here to kill him, when all of the information he had was a dot on a map. Quaranir would have been able to deduce that he'd known the dot was the Staff of Magnus, and the staff's current owner was a dragon priest. Clearly, the Arch-Mage's sense of guile had taken a blow.

Additionally, there was this matter of traveling to Helgen. Savos had no need to return to the College of Winterhold imminently, so it was of no logistical concern, but Quaranir had quite emphatically assured him that his work was important. That itself was something of a concern. He had a distinct feeling that there would be more than burnt rubble awaiting him there.

Still, he was the Arch-Mage, and likely one of the greatest mages presently alive. He was confident enough that he could handle whatever awaited him, presuming Morokei wouldn't somehow present himself there at the exact moment he arrived. If that happened, Savos supposed he would simply let Morokei kill him so that he could ascend to Aetherius and give the gods a smack in the face.

In order to travel from here to Helgen, and assuming he would not encounter the gracious offer of another dragon's services (Savos felt an obligatory sort of disappointment at being unable to ride a dragon today), the elf would need to cross the low caldera of Eastmarch, then circle around the southern end of the Throat of the World. From this mountainside, it was like looking out over a steaming sea of beige to a faraway shore on the horizon. Granted, the faraway shore was better served by the analog of a tremendous volcanic island, but the view was breathtaking all the same.

This did not stop the dark elf from abandoning his vantage point to climb back down as quickly as he could without risking the integrity of his skeleton.

The next three days were spent in a perambulatory voyage across that great beige sea. Soon enough, he would need to cross the Darkwater River, but every waking hour before then was spent traversing water nonetheless. Eastmarch was famous and infamous alike for the hot springs which dominated its landscape, which may have given wandering hunters a relaxing place to bathe, but were entirely impossible to build villages upon. Savos estimated he was never more than three hundred feet from some sort of natural water.

On the other hand, the balmy, humid air allowed him to stow his jacket once again. It rather reminded him of the interior of Mzulft, though perhaps more lacking in giant, carnivorous insects. Really, there was nothing here to pose any sort of threat. Even subsistence was no challenge, with fresh, clean water at every turn, and an overwhelming abundance of natural flora—under other circumstances, this would have made for some truly relaxing time off.

It was on the third day of travel, in mid-morning, when he happened upon a truly peculiar sight. Not far ahead, a rocky crest rose from the earth, surrounded by a loose scattering of trees. He thought little of it—this entire hold was a great mess of rocks, to put it bluntly. It only became peculiar when three figures walked right out of the crest. Three elves, it appeared, emerging into the open as though they were out for some sundry errand.

"Hail!" Savos waved his hand as he approached, but did not quicken his pace. He was only a few stone's throws away.

The elves stopped and briefly conversed with one another, then one of them, a Bosmer woman, stepped forward. "Greetings, Dunmer," she called out. "What brings you to the sanctuary?"

Savos frowned. His command of geography failed him, as apparently did his sense of topology. Perhaps he was looking at a cave of some fashion?

As he approached, he circled to the left, offering his eyes a clearer perspective. Yes, this was a cave. A naturally occurring cave, in the middle of the caldera of Eastmarch, host to elves who referred to it as a sanctuary. This sort of thing was no particular anomaly, he supposed, in the context of someplace like Skyrim.

It occurred to him that this sanctuary could be the site of the fabled Eldergleam. He had never even dreamed of seeing it in person, and now he had simply stumbled upon its hiding place? He would need to choose his words carefully, for the elves awaited his response yet.

"Just passing by," he said. "What sanctuary, now?"

"Eldergleam Sanctuary," said the one in front.

Hearing the name confirmed gave him a thrill, admittedly petty, of satisfaction. Sitting and reading about the world was no substitute for venturing out to see it firsthand, he knew, but how could he describe the feeling of successfully predicting this elf's answer by virtue of a lesson in world history?

Once he was close enough to discern the specific features of his new company, Savos realized, with a shock, that this lead elf was missing her left hand. Her forearm ended with an unsettling, visibly scarred stump. There was no prosthesis, no concealment—not that the short-sleeved required wear of southern Eastmarch would allow for that. He did his best to not stare.

"Well... No, I don't know anything about this, sorry. I'm just a traveler." He shrugged apologetically.

The elves exchanged a look with one another. Savos noted that this one-handed elf's followers were both Altmer. The three of them seemed to be dressed for a long trek. Before turning back to face him, the lead elf shook her head slightly.

"You're certainly welcome to explore it," she said, "though if I were you, I wouldn't stay long. There's no one else around here. Not what I'd call safe."

If only she knew, Savos thought. He glanced back the way he came, then scratched at his head with a befuddled sort of look. "Huh. Well, uh… Where are you three headed, then?"

"My friends and I will be traveling to Ivarstead. Supplies," she shrugged. "What's your name, traveler?"

"Nelaketh," said Arch-Mage Savos Aren. "You?"

"My birth name is… Honestly, _I_ have trouble pronouncing it. Everyone just calls me Elma One-Hand. Which kind of makes me want to strangle everyone, but, you know." The elf laughed.

Savos smiled a bit, but did not join her. These three obviously were up to something, he knew not what, but he cared little. Every last soul in Skyrim, great or small, black or white, was up to something.

"In that case, well-met, Elma. What's in there, did you say?" He pointed past them, into the mouth of the cave.

Elma glanced over her shoulder. "Ah. Yes, the Eldergleam. The oldest tree in Tamriel. The oldest living thing, some say. A sacred site, so if you enter, do so with care."

"Strange, that such a great specimen might flourish in a cave, of all places. My understanding of trees is that they last the longest in the sun."

"There's light in there!" She laughed again, while still speaking. "No, uh… Really, though. Not as strange as you'd think. Things aboveground tend to be far more vulnerable to the erosion of time. How many intact Nordic ruins are out in the sun?"

"Fair point." This time, Savos' smile came more genuinely.

Under other circumstances, he might have offered to travel alongside them. Ivarstead and Helgen were both in a general westerly direction—in fact, Savos expected he would pass Ivarstead on the way to begin with. If they so desired, he and these elves could travel together without any notable inconvenience. But they obviously wanted to be rid of him, and he wouldn't want to force their hand by disrespecting that.

Before this Elma could say anything more, he pointed again. "Do you mind if I take a little look in there? I'm sort of curious."

"If you like. I certainly won't stop you." With that, the elf simply turned and started to walk off, followers in tow.

Savos wasted no time in entering the cave. Its mouth was dark, crooked and cramped, and as he stepped into the shade, he cast a candlelight spell out of sheer instinct. But as he ventured deeper, he quickly realized that he had simply wasted his magicka, for this passage opened into a truly tremendous space, and well-lit at that.

This cavern was, simply put, full of life. An entire grove's worth of trees, shrubs and grass lived down here, verdant and vibrant. Sunlight, and water, poured in through holes in the ceiling, casting rays of light through the steamy, spacious chamber, and feeding lazy rivers that trailed out of view. High above it all, atop a ledge on the far wall, stood a massively stout tree with pink leaves glowing fluorescently in the morning light. A truly idyllic place, indeed. Savos did not need to wonder why anyone would travel here.

But then, with a sickening start, he spotted the two bloody corpses sprawled on the ground.

He turned and ran, as swiftly as his legs could carry him, back through the passage, back to the surface. The bright expanse of the caldera was here to greet him, but the same could not be said of those three elves. They were nowhere to be seen. He circled around to the top of the stony crest for a better vantage point, cast a life detection spell, looked in every direction—nothing. They were simply gone.

His body was in full alert, breathing controlled, eyes narrowed, mage armor active, but it was no use. Something terrible had just taken place, but there would be no investigating this, not even if he had the chance to try again. He wanted to return to the sanctuary, examine those bodies, see what he could learn, anything to keep those perfidious wretches from getting away.

But the Psijics had spoken. They had saved his life in order to give him an objective, and it must have accounted for this. He hadn't a clue what sort of crime he had just stumbled upon, but one thing was for sure: whatever awaited him in Helgen had better have been worth his time.


	16. Thorald 3

**I've made some retroactive changes to the Black Machine's numbering. This only applies to the new generation of equipment, so the contents of The Currents of Time remain unchanged, but chapter 9 of this story has seen a minor revision.**

Sundas, 11:55 PM, 22nd of First Seed, 4E 202

Whiterun Hold

Last Middas, on the eighteenth, a special guest had shown up at the Silent City shuttle terminal.

It was awfully sudden. Thorald had been minding his business, doing some sword forms outside the debate hall. He'd just heard that some relative of the Dragonborn's had come to Blackreach, maybe fifteen minutes or so ago. Not worth interrupting the forms, really. So the Dragonborn was human, he had family, it wasn't Thorald's place to disturb his reunion.

But then, a very familiar voice:

"Hey. Thorald."

The Dragonborn was standing right next to him, and a towering hulk of an armored figure was standing right next to the Dragonborn. Thorald was at eye level with an ebony breastplate. He didn't even bother to sheathe his sword. He just pulled his helmet off for a better look.

This man must have stood nearly eight feet high. Clad head to toe in armor, too. Even with the helmet off, Thorald had to crane his neck to look up at the fellow's visor.

The Dragonborn was armored up too, minus the helmet, but Thorald barely even noticed him. He was still talking, though. "This is my brother, the Ebony Warrior."

The three of them were standing in an ancient, abandoned city, a mile underground, crammed with mystifying machinery, in a cavern so huge it could count as its own hold of Skyrim, filled with exotic rocks, red nirnroots and giant glowing mushrooms. Thorald had been living here long enough to learn that anything was possible. He was still pretty sure this guy wasn't real.

"You can call me Kamian," the fake huge guy said.

Didn't the Dragonborn also want to be on a first-name basis with him? Thorald was pretty sure his given name was Iseus, or something. Not important.

"Thorald Gray-Mane." He automatically held his hand out. The huge guy, Kamian, took the handshake in such a massive grip that Thorald probably would've had better luck shaking his pointer finger.

"So! The hero of the Black Machine. It's a pleasure to meet you. My brother's been telling me a little about you. Nice armor, by the way." Kamian gestured at Thorald's middle.

He glanced down at himself just on reflex. There was a stylized golden outline of a dwarven gear right in the center of his breastplate. Just a standard part of the new armor. When he looked up, he realized his armor was basically a hybrid of the Dragonborn's and his brother's. All dwarven metal, all ebony, and Thorald was in between.

"It's actually a pretty good coincidence," said the Dragonborn. "It just happens that there's ebony down here. I mean, the ore, not the actual processed metal. We had to mine it and all that stuff."

Thorald nodded absently. "Aye. That's … Ah, right. Yes. Our first armor was all dwarven metal, but we had to scrap that and start over."

He couldn't get over this. For one thing, the Dragonborn _had a brother_. He should've predicted the man would have some living family, but still. Then it turned out the Dragonborn's brother was about the size of the Throat of the World. This man must've been a horror to get into a fight with.

Then again, so was the Dragonborn himself.

Kamian said, "I was hearing about that too, actually. You're the one who took down the saboteur, right? The dark elf."

"Actually, a disguised high elf. Why does everyone keep going on about that?"

"Welcome to being a hero," the Dragonborn smirked.

"People just bother you about something you did once?"

Kamian made a throat-clearing kind of chuckling sound. "Yeah… That's how it is. Why do you think you didn't know about me? … Do you have _numbers _on you?"

A very plain observation, that was. When someone had a nice big golden '29 · 1' on each shoulder, it was hard to miss. Which was the point, of course.

"We have to stay organized," he shrugged.

"Right. Uh… Anyway, I try not to be well-known. I actively try. I stay out of the cities, I don't tell anyone about what I do, it's really a lot easier to live this way. Otherwise you end up having a huge base of operations underground." He glanced down at his brother. "Which is impressive, but still."

Thorald was still getting used to the idea of this man being real. With such an attention-grabbing size, staying out of cities was probably the only way he'd gone unsung so far. Actually…

"… But you're here now. In a city."

"Had to come here. Bad news from Labyrinthian. A dragon priest got out."

"A what?"

"I'll be making an announcement about it in a few minutes," said the Dragonborn. "You'd better get into the debate hall."

And that was how Thorald had met the Ebony Warrior. He'd sort of expected it to have more ceremony.

Sure enough, the Dragonborn assembled everyone in the debate hall, and made his announcement, which started with a history lesson. Really. Dragon priests, mortal representatives of the dragons, nine in number. Well, eight. Actually, just one, now, thanks to the Ebony Warrior. They'd been preserved like draugr, basically, so that last one was still walking and talking. And wearing the ninth one's mask, and carrying an absurdly powerful staff. And he was just someplace in Skyrim.

But this all didn't really change much. The Dragonborn had already sent word to Winterhold, because apparently the Arch-Mage of the college was a dragon priest expert. There wasn't a lot to do in the meantime but wait. It looked like this was just sort of a general notice. One of those things where there wasn't a lot of point in telling the men right then, but it'd be cruel _not_ to tell them. It definitely didn't change the mood down here. People had work to do.

Still, for the love of Talos, couldn't they get a break? They'd just fended off the dragons already. Now Skyrim would have to handle one of their _priests? _This was unfair.

Not twenty-four hours after the Ebony Warrior's arrival, Squad 29 received a new set of orders. Thorald wasn't surprised to find that the orders had nothing to do with catching a dragon priest. Well, at least not directly. There was a camp in Whiterun Hold, way down south, almost in Falkreath Hold. The dragons had spotted Thalmor officers there, and the Black Machine needed to pry it back out of their hands. Or, at least, Thorald and his four squadmates needed to.

It'd been two weeks since Thorald's last assignment. That was enough time to have something new to test. His gauntlet had gone into the workshop for some tinkering before he left.

The journey was on foot, in full armor. On the bright side, the Dragonborn had been enchanting everyone's gauntlets to lighten the weight. Thorald was wearing a two-layered dwarven/ebony suit, but felt a whole lot lighter on his body than it had before. He was enjoying this.

Besides that he had to do this alongside his new squadmates. When he and his squad had gone to confront Estormo, that saboteur who'd destroyed the Alftand shuttle, everyone else in his squad had died. Now he was in charge of four fellows who were… Definitely good at fighting, at least. But they barely even made it from the Mzark lift to the outdoors in peace.

"Oh, wow. That's cold." That was 29 · 5. An Imperial man, name of Deccaro. Thorald kept thinking he belonged in the Legion, not the Black Machine, but Deccaro was one of the hundreds of refugees they'd taken in from the Reach. Right now, he was stepping out into the cold and making an exaggerated tremor.

"It's not the cold, it's the wind." 29 · 4, there. Also a refugee. Breton fellow, name of Echallos. That was how it would be written down, he was pretty sure. Ek-a-low. That was some quality Breton naming, right there. "It just pierces through everything, it's not right."

2 and 3 were Nord ladies. Alysca and Fadrala. Twins, apparently. It wasn't really proper practice to put siblings in the same squad, but as a part of Squad 29, they'd passed every test the Dragonborn had thrown at them, and they seemed to do well together. So that was that.

"Aren't we getting frost resistance enchantments at some point, sir?" Deccaro turned to Thorald. "Do you know?"

"You shouldn't rely on an enchantment to get by. Not for the cold, not for swordplay. Not in Skyrim." Thorald walked past all of them and set off on the southerly path. They'd be doing a lot of downhall walking for now.

"We should've gotten some dragons to ride over there," Fadrala said.

Alysca added, "Actually, couldn't they have cleared out the camp themselves?"

"The Thalmor have had a lot of time to prepare to fight dragons," Thorald said without turning around. "They've _killed_ a dragon already, in plain open combat. But they still think the Black Machine is an actual machine. We'll be fine."

Echallos said, "If you want to go down that line of thinking, we might as well ask Hermaeus Mora to come in from Apocrypha and win the war for us. Immortal powers aren't that generous."

"I can't believe you got a Daedra Prince to work for you, sir," said Deccaro. "With the, uh… The dragon in the cage and everything. I couldn't believe it when I heard about that, the first time."

Thorald shook his head. "No, I didn't do that. That was the Dragonborn's deal with him. I just fended off that elf."

"I don't know, sir. These Daedras are pretty dangerous. I remember back in Markarth, there was this house that was being possessed by, uh, Molog Bob—"

"Molag Bal."

"Right. And there were a few Vigilants of Stendarr who went in there, and they all ended up just killing each other for some reason."

"The Vigilants are a joke," said Echallos. "They want to fight unending immortal armies."

Alysca said, "They are still around, though. The Vigilants of Stendarr. You have to give them that—"

Decarro cut in. "Hey, no, actually, I heard their, uh… Headquarters, I suppose, got totally wiped out. Has anyone else heard that?"

He was answered with a chorus of 'no's.

"Just me, then? All—all right, uh… I dunno, it's what I heard."

"Can't believe everything you hear," said Alysca.

"What about Kynesgrove? I heard a dragon attacked there. But the Dragonborn fought him off."

"All right, let me get this one," Thorald said, a bit loudly.

Everyone piped down. Thank the Divines.

"If something happens to the Vigilants, Decarro, the dragons will let us know. But yes, the Dragonborn actually told me about Kynesgrove. There was a dragon buried in a mound there, and he walked up just as Alduin was bringing the thing back to life. Anyway, the, uh… The Dragonborn pretty much hacked the dragon's head off before it could even get in the air. Hit it with a shout, jumped on it, you get the idea.

"And then Alduin was still just hovering there, and… I guess neither of them could kill each other? I think Alduin was speaking dragon at first, but then switched to something like Cyrodiilic, and was complaining that he had to do that." He switched to a deep, growly voice. Iseus was way better at these impressions. "Such arrogance, to dare to take the name of dovah for yourself." Then back to normal. "I think that was it."

Total silence.

Eventually, Decarro spoke up. "So… What did the Dragonborn do?"

"He, uh… He told Alduin to go do something that I'm fairly sure would be impossible even if he _had_ the anatomy for it."

Decarro choked. A couple of the others made similar sounds. "That's actually what he told you? The Dragonborn told you that."

"Yes, it is. Really! You should ask him about it yourselves, if you can get a moment with him. He's very pleasant to be around."

Sometimes, Thorald felt like he wasn't a part of this squad. Just with how they all bantered with each other. It was hard to keep up with. But what was he going to do, look down upon them? These were his brothers and sisters in arms. They deserved the real story, at least.

In any case, this went on for five entire days. The mountains turned to plains, and the plains turned to… More plains, basically. For most of the trip, the Throat of the World was high on the horizon to their left, which was the only really notable landmark for a while. But they had maps, and compasses, and little miniature clocks with tuning forks inside or something. They weren't getting lost any time soon.

Also, at one point, they came fairly close by Whiterun. Dragonsreach was right there to see. They gave it a wide, wide berth, same as the common roads. It was best no one saw them out here.

By the time they got to the camp they were looking for, it was nearly three weeks since Thorald's last assignment. It was a very distinctive camp. In the middle of the open plains, standing above the flat earth, was a pink tree. The actual bark was a shiny, bluish sort of pink. It looked bright even in the dead of night.

Also, there were a couple fires lit over there. At this distance, they were orange pinpricks right next to the pink shape. Not exactly trying to hide, apparently.

Thorald stopped his squad about half a mile out, and used a spyglass from his pack for a closer look. He counted four figures standing around by the tree, but none of them were in uniform. They just had regular travel-type clothes.

He collapsed the spyglass, put it away, and turned to his squad. "All right, listen up."

Five minutes later, Thorald stood just a few dozen feet from the tree. Up close, it didn't look like a solid pink. It looked like regular bark and glowing purple bark in mottled waves. No leaves, just branches and twigs, all colored like this. The purple parts glimmered even where the moonlight wasn't on them. It reminded him of some of the rocks in Blackreach.

So basically there was a tree here that obviously didn't belong in Whiterun Hold. Thorald felt like it deserved more than a tiny little camp. This was the kind of thing people built palaces around, or maybe fortresses.

These people on watch still hadn't noticed him. Maybe because his armor was mostly black, or because his armor had a muffle enchant, but there were four people in civilian robes and they were just chatting.

He cupped his hands around his visor and called out. "Good evening, soldiers!"

The four of them all jumped and scrambled to attention. They were all high elves, big surprise. Thorald would've killed them all by now, but he needed to know for sure that they were enemies. The report from the dragon had said Thalmor uniforms, and these fellows weren't wearing any.

"Who goes there?" called out one of the elves. He seemed to be taking a position in front of the others.

The Sleeping Tree was in the middle of a pool of dark blue water. Thorald circled around it slowly, walking into the light of the braziers they had burning. "Why are you all out of uniform? You know your normal robes have all the enchantments."

The elves looked at each other uneasily, then back at him. "I really don't know what you're talking about," the lead guy said, "but if you need some kind of lodging for the night, we can offer you that, if that's what you—"

Thorald drew his sword.

Instantly, all four of them threw on a shining film of mage armor. The lead elf roared at the top of his lungs, "ENEMY CONTACT! GET—"

Then an ebony sword sprouted from his chest.

Invisibility potions had a very particular way of working. Depending on how much the user drank, and on how strong the potion was, they would be invisible for some number of seconds. If the user tried to open a door, attack someone, pick up an object, anything like that, while invisible, the effect would stop, and all the seconds left over would be wasted. And if that happened, in order to turn invisible again, the user needed to add more potion to their system.

The lead elf fell forwards to reveal 29 · 4, who vanished the moment his sword was free. The other three elves moved to attack, but 2, 3 and 5 all appeared beside them, one for each, swords already piercing their bodies. Again, the very second their weapons withdrew, they disappeared from sight.

Thorald hadn't realized it, but there was actually a cave mouth right by here. Elves started to come running out, these ones wearing the same kind of clothes as the first four. But they were shouting orders to each other, spreading out around this side of the camp, flame spells charged up in their hands. More and more by the second. There must have been a couple dozen of them.

And, of course, they all spotted one man in black-and-gold armor, standing right there, next to four dead bodies. The fireballs came in pretty fast.

It was sort of like staring into a fireplace. Thorald's whole field of vision was full of lashing waves of orange light, but he didn't feel even the tiniest bit of heat. He just stood there patiently, sword at his side, waiting for them to finish up using their magicka. And they kept flinging spell after spell at him, covering him in a flood of fire.

After a good fifteen seconds, when the last fireball had gone away, that man in black-and-gold armor was still standing right there, like he was still waiting for them to start their attack. That'd been really reckless of them. It wasn't right in the way, but the Sleeping Tree wasn't far off. They could've accidentally set it alight, and _then_ where would they be?

Thorald pointed his sword right at them. "Go."

That was when things turned to chaos. Other figures in armor started blinking into existence, skewering elves on their swords, and blinking right back out. It was impossible to count them. The elves started throwing spells every which way, trying to stop the invisibility—and sometimes they'd hit, and it'd reveal an armored person running around, and they'd vanish in a second anyway.

These arm-mounted injectors were really useful already, but then someone had gotten the idea to put an invisibility potion on a slow drip. And now look.

The elves were retreating back into the cave. There really weren't many of them left. They were screaming obscenities, or just screaming, all seven or eight of the ones who weren't laying dead by now. Thorald strode over right to the entrance, blocking it off to the survivors still outside. One of them came straight at him, conjuring a bound sword in one hand.

This might have been a problem. Thorald wasn't totally sure if this ring of his would count an ethereal weapon as magic. The elf was raising his sword up high, probably planning to put it in between Thorald's helmet and breastplate.

He answered by bringing his sword up in such a forceful stroke that it cut the elf's forearm clean off. Not much of a problem. This ebony edge was incredibly sharp.

Right as he was in the middle of finishing the elf off, something smashed against his back. It didn't hurt at all, but something made a smashing sort of sound. He turned to slowly look over his shoulder.

Three more elves, standing there inside the cave. It wasn't a very big space, considering how many people were staying in here, and the floor was just packed dirt, but there were plenty of torches lit. Not much in the way of dark hiding places.

The elf in front, she looked like some kind of foreign warrior type, launched an ice spike at him. It shattered harmlessly against his breastplate. That would be the smashing sound, then.

Thorald called out, "Turn off your injectors, watch the perimeter," to apparently no one in particular, then walked down into the cave.

One of the other elves tried to make a break for it, running up past him, out the mouth of the cave. All Thorald really had to do was hold out his sword, and the elf did the actual strike for him.

Then he closed in on the warrior-looking elf. She threw spike after spike at him, shatter after shatter, then switched to lightning bolts, then switched to a constant stream of frost. Thorald didn't even react. He just walked slowly down through the cave, bloody sword at his side, closing in even as the elf emptied her magicka at him. He could see the terror in her eyes.

His sword came up from beneath her ribcage. He was sure it managed to get her heart. Her face contorted for a moment, then she relaxed and started to slump over. Thorald wrenched his weapon back out before it could make a mess on his gauntlets.

That left one elf. Just one, cowering in the corner, staring at the armored man with his mouth agape. He didn't look much like a soldier. Not even really like an adult, for that matter. He had these round, boyish features that usually didn't go on high elves.

"Listen, you, you, you listen, please, I won't…" The elf winced at his own speech, backing up more against the wall as Thorald approached. "Please, please don't kill me, I'll talk, I'll tell you anything, everything you want to know, please, just don't—no, don't!"

The soldier marked as 29 · 1 put his sword straight through the elf's chest. One precise stab, that was all it took. The elf sank to his knees, clutching at the blade, then fell sideways onto the ground. That was the last of them.

There was plenty of work to do, disposing of the bodies. It took them almost an hour to pile them all up away from the camp, and a while longer to get the pile burning. But it worked, and they were free to leave.

The camp would be under constant surveillance from the dragons, to make sure that the Thalmor couldn't try to regain a foothold. But that was nothing for Squad 29 to spend time on. They had an underground city to return to. Their mission was complete.

Nothing else was very important right then.


	17. Aela 3

Tirdas, 4:34 PM, 24th of First Seed, 4E 202

Bthardamz

The decision to strike back had not been made lightly.

Were they all free of anger? No, they were not. Brynjolf must have liked to tear some of the Silver Hand apart with his bare hands right then. Aela felt more or less the same way, too. They'd come into her home twice now. They deserved it.

The last time this had happened, with the deaths of Skjor and Kodlak, the great concern was that taking the fight to the Silver Hand would be driven by this anger. There was no honor in low vengeance, not then and not now. But things had changed. The stakes were no longer normal.

The Companions' attack on Driftshade Refuge should have ended the Silver Hand for good. That was their last stronghold, and there had been no survivors. But now their old enemies were back, and with new enemies in tow. It so happened that the new enemies were Daedric cultists.

Now, if they struck back, they risked angering a Daedric Prince. The stakes were no longer normal.

This partnership between Silver Hand and Afflicted raised all kinds of questions, but the most obvious was, why? What would these two groups possibly have to offer each other? Why would they even _tolerate _each other?

It didn't help matters that the attack on Jorrvaskr hadn't left a single attacker alive enough to talk. Aela suspected that any wounded had finished themselves off just to make this harder. The simple fact was, they needed answers.

Most of these answers would have to come from someone outside Whiterun. But there was one person right here whose job was to answer questions about magical matters—none other than the one and only court wizard of Dragonsreach, Farengar Secret-Fire! That robe-wearing fellow who sat around all day and never did anything. One and the same.

It actually turned out that Farengar did know something about this. Apparently, not long ago, he'd attended some sort of conference where Peryite had been mentioned. According to that, the Daedric Prince had infected some villages in High Rock and the Reach with a special disease. The one that made people Afflicted.

As of the conference, word was that some high elf named Orchendor was rallying all the Afflicted he could in one big cult. They'd set up shop in a dwarven ruin whose name started with a B. That was all Aela really needed to know. Dwarven names were all horrible.

What mattered was that they had a target. One of Aela's favorite phrases was, 'eyes on the prey, not on the horizon', but that wasn't worth much if she didn't see any prey.

In any case, the ruin was right on the border with High Rock, so there was plenty of traveling to do.

They left on Middas the 15th, in the early hours of the morning, so they wouldn't have to deal with anyone on the way out. Just the four of them: Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, Brynjolf, all on horseback. It was like Driftshade all over again, except now they were _all_ werewolves. Even if Brynjolf had been one for less than thirty-six hours.

And even if they were traveling west instead of north. Once, Aela would've actually appreciated that. Driftshade had been all the way up in the Winterhold. It wasn't that she minded the cold—no self-respecting Nord would fear that—but barren fields of ice were no pleasure to cross.

Once, this journey would have been a pleasure in comparison. But now, leaving the grassy expanse of Whiterun Hold for the Reach, those barren fields of ice up north were traded in for barren fields of ash.

It started slowly. Aela and the others stopped coming across passing hunters and traders days before the border. Then the animals, the elks, foxes, bears, all those creatures, they stopped appearing. Finally, it was just the four of them and empty grassy fields. It was eerily quiet. And there was a strange, unsettling scent on the easterly wind. None of them could quite tell what it was.

Then, one morning, they crested a slope to find the start of the Reach. Rolling, broad hills, carved out with rivers and cliffs… And not a living thing in sight. There was dark, crumbling ash where grass belonged. There were trees and shrubs, but they were all burnt to a crisp. The entire Reach was painted in shades of black and gray. That scent was of death.

The Thalmor Mage Units. Such a dry, thoughtless name. They could have afforded to call themselves something more fitting, though Aela had no idea what. They'd been tasked with fighting the Forsworn, so they'd burned this whole hold of Skyrim to the ground, and then burned the ground to cinders for good measure. There was no army, no guild, no secret cult that wielded such horrific power as this.

On the bright side, word was that the mage unit responsible for this had been destroyed long since. Eight out of nine holds not completely ruined, that was… Awfully poor consolation, actually, but still.

Traveling through the Reach was just as challenging as traveling over unending ice, if not worse. There wasn't even much of anything to eat. The rivers still flowed, the Thalmor hadn't managed to keep the alpine ice from melting, but there were next to no fish. Patches of living plants were few, far between and very remote. It was hard enough to find a single flower still alive, let alone anything they could live on. They'd packed generously, they wouldn't starve, but this was unbelievable.

Aela had been to the Reach hundreds of times. She knew these roads. She knew exactly how this had once looked. Where there should have been villages, there was just burnt rubble, and where there should have been a beautiful scenic view of the countryside, there was barren, blackened earth as far as the eye could see. It was beyond sickening to go through.

And that was before they started finding the bodies. One or two, at first, on the side of the road. They were all impossible to identify. Burnt far, far beyond recognition. If it weren't for the two arms and two legs on each one, Aela might've mistaken them for pieces of broken wood. But they had been people, once.

Then they started showing up in masses. Every time they approached a village, for sure, but sometimes just in the middle of nowhere. She couldn't keep count. Bodies piled up in pits, bodies strewn around outside ruined buildings, bodies lined up in rows, laying on their bellies. Not one of them had a recognizable face. They had all burned.

One hundred elves had managed to do _this? _Did the Dragonborn realize what sort of force he'd managed to bring down?

She almost regretted that the mage unit was already gone. It would've been cold comfort to bring justice to them herself, and they'd been trying to _avoid_ acting out of revenge, but… Someone had to pay for this. They were seeing more and more desolation, every day, and this what the entire Reach looked like now.

On a related note, the price of juniper berries must have been through the roof right about then. Good thing she wasn't an alchemist.

This all brought Aela to today. The day they would reach the ruin. Its name was Bthardamz. Dwarven names were all definitely horrible.

It wasn't easy to find. The Reach was made almost entirely of hills, and the roads had been in poor shape _before_ the Thalmor ruined the whole place. But eventually, on a southward path, almost all the way in High Rock, their way was blocked by what, from afar, looked like a great stone wall.

Aela was leading the others in single file. She pointed up ahead. "Think that's it?"

Right behind her in line, Brynjolf made a noise of assent. He'd been handling his lycanthropy well enough. He didn't seem to really like it, but at least he hadn't randomly transformed and tried to kill them all. "It's _some_ kind of man-made structure. Mer-made, at least. And it's not Markarth, so what's that leave us with?"

Vilkas helpfully offered, "Deep Folk Crossing?"

"Do you see a river and a bridge, lad?"

"Can't see a damned thing, Bryn. Too far."

As they approached, it became obvious that this was the edge of a dwarven ruin. Even without looking at the stone up close, those low, orange-looking dome roofs on top gave it away.

"It's funny," said Farkas, from all the way in back.

His brother and Brynjolf said "What?" at the same time.

"The dwarves built everything underground, but these entrances at the surface stick way out. This isn't a hidden entrance, this is… This is the opposite of being hidden."

"Well, they didn't want it to be _hidden_," said Vilkas, "just easy to defend."

"That went well for them, didn't it?"

Brynjolf said, "They're built to be very secure, though. Have you seen those machines they have? The automatons. They attack anyone they can, and they're everywhere."

"Maybe if we disguise ourselves as dwarves, the automatons won't attack us," Farkas deadpanned.

"Actually, maybe the automatons did attack the dwarves too, and that's how they died out." Vilkas chuckled to himself.

"I'm no scholar, brother, but I'm pretty certain that's not—"

Aela turned over her shoulder and glared at the men behind her. "Would all of you settle down? We're about to enter Afflicted territory. I shouldn't have to be the serious one here."

As she rode, she produced her bow and nocked an arrow. They were riding at slow enough a pace that she didn't even really need her hands on the reins.

It looked like there was a stairway up to the ruin's actual entrance. Two stairways, actually. One went way to the left, almost backwards from where they were walking, and the other, above the first, went to the right, doubling back to the wall-area. More of a corner, really. Aela was going to take a closer look at that stonework, but her musing was suddenly cut off.

An arrow sailed straight over her shoulder and thudded into something. Brynjolf grunted loudly.

"Up there! On the left." Vilkas drew his sword. His brother followed suit.

On the left was a huge, rocky hill. That was what the staircase was ascending. At the very top, a fair way back, a figure was readying another arrow. Aela instantly took aim and let fly.

A direct hit. The figure staggered and fell backwards. If that was the best these Afflicted could do, this would take about three minutes.

Aela turned back around to see Brynjolf holding a bloody arrow in one hand and a ceramic vial in the other. There was a hole gouged just beneath the shoulder plate of his leather.

"Healing potion," he smiled. "I'm fine."

Aela nodded, then hopped off her mount. "We should tether these before they get hit too. I'd be worried about someone making off with them, but I think anyone who would've done that has been dead for a while."

Brynjolf dropped the arrow to the ground and followed her down. "Ordinarily, I'd suggest a tree, but, uh…"

"Will that do?" Vilkas was pointing again.

To the right, there was a little depression, before a steep, mountainous slope upwards. At its lowest point, there was something that could have once been a tree. All that remained was the trunk and a few big branches, with a black, burnt shell for bark. Aela had seen hundreds like it on this journey.

And they ended up all tethering their horses to it. Right around that dead little tree trunk. Something about that just felt bizarre, even though it wasn't the first time they'd had to do it.

They ascended the first staircase with their weapons at the ready, but it didn't look like anyone else was out here. Just off the left of the stone landing, that ill-fated archer lay sprawled in the dirt. It was an Afflicted, all right, and not even a soldier. Just some woman in a dress, with a bow next to her on the ground.

"Not exactly up to dwarven standards," said Brynjolf.

"For defense?" Aela glanced back at him, but only for a moment. If she were running this place, she would've had the rest of the Afflicted all waiting just out of sight.

This landing was made of huge slabs of stone, maybe ten feet by ten feet. The main entrance was right at the top of the next staircase up. A couple of big, arching doors, right under those orange dome roofs, just waiting to be entered. Aela had never been in a dwarven ruin before. This was going to be exciting.

"Be careful," Farkas said. "The Afflicted could be anywhere. And you don't want to let them get close to you."

The arching doors led up to a hallway. Not going forwards, but crossing past both of them, going to the left. It was a bizarre, semi-indoor, winding passage, lit up by ancient chandeliers and filled with broken debris. Aela suspected it must have had some function in making it hard for invaders to get in. But it soon opened right back up, and they were outdoors again.

This area was essentially a big natural-looking pit in the stone mountainside, crammed with dwarven architecture. The _actual _main entrance looked to be at the far end of the pit, down a few successive staircases, which passed beneath a bridge—and between the two pillars holding the bridge up. The main entrance's roofing, and even the pillars, were all decorated with dwarven metal shingles.

"So, we just go down there, and…" Farkas came up beside her. He didn't sound terribly happy about this.

Vilkas said, "You know, I've read that Bthardamz is the largest single dwarven city in Skyrim. I suppose technically not the greatest ruin, if the stories of Blackreach are true, but… We're going to be here for a long, long time."

"Or we could take a shortcut," said Brynjolf.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"What? Have you ever seen a dwarven city that _doesn't_ have a lift down to the bottom?"

"I don't see a lift," said Farkas.

"We've been here for fifteen seconds, lad, don't be like that."

Aela held up her hand. The one without a sword in it. "Wait. Lift?"

"Platform that moves up and down to carry people around," Brynjolf said very quickly. "I got to ride one when the Dragonborn showed me his corner of Blackreach. The lift chamber was just this freestanding thing with one of those domes on top, so… Let's look for one of those, eh?"

There were actually three of them. Two were on either side of the bridge, and the third was up and to the far left.

They'd entered on the near-right corner, and the stairs up to the bridge were on the near-left, leading up to one of the little tower-things. Aela didn't know how to think of those. The dwarves just really loved things with extremely thick stone pillars and roofs. While Aela was staring at it all, Brynjolf started off walking, so she just followed along.

The view from this bridge was staggering. There was a vantage point straight down to the bottom of the pit, where the front gate to Bthardamz lay. Up where they were, right at the bridge's start, there was a steep, curving stone ramp up to the third tower, which looked like it was empty. But the second tower, right at the bridge's far end, was blocked off by a solid dwarven metal door. Very promising.

On the other hand, Aela was starting to get worried by the absence of railings. This place looked so unsafe to live in. Even just crossing this bridge bothered her. She did her best to stay in the middle.

Brynjolf walked up to the door and gave it a quick inspection. It looked to actually be a set of double doors, because he was examining some kind of lock right in the center. He hooked his fingers in the handles, gave them a tug, sighed, then turned back to Aela.

"The dwarves have a unique sort of lock," he said. "Essentially unpickable. No wards, no springs, just metal parts in a tube. This needs a key."

"Well, there's always the actual entrance," said Farkas.

"If you want to see what the Afflicted have to offer their visitors," Vilkas frowned.

Farkas nodded and folded his arms. "Hmm."

A few seconds went by in silence. Brynjolf shifted around uncomfortably. For good reason, really. His thieving skills weren't really doing their job.

"I have a confession to make," he said.

Actually, never mind, then.

"An old friend of mine from the guild visited Jorrvaskr the other week. None of you were supposed to know about this. We talked for a while, and… I ended up with a souvenir. My friend said I'd need it soon."

Farkas asked, "What's your friend's name?"

Brynjolf shrugged his pack off of one shoulder and started searching through it with that hand. He glanced up at the others, almost nervously, then slowly started to pull something out.

"Her name is Karliah," he said, "and she runs the guild. She gave me this."

In his hand was something that looked like an overly artistic key. It had far too many bits on the business end, and the other end was a big turquoise-black enameled bulb. There was something resembling a spoked wheel around its middle, like a hilt guard on some ceremonial dagger. Everything but the bulb was a strange, dark, metallic red-orange. It all looked extremely ancient, but Aela had no idea what she was looking at.

Brynjolf paused for a moment. "This… Is the Skeleton Key. The Daedric Artifact of Nocturnal. It can unlock anything you want it to. Anything in the world."

Another few seconds of silence. Aela looked at her two shield-brothers, then back at Brynjolf.

"You were given a Daedric Artifact to open a door," she said slowly.

"Well, apparently, Nocturnal said I'd need it for something, and… We have a choice between opening this door and seeing what death traps are down there. So here it is."

"You were given a Daedric Artifact to _open a door_."

Brynjolf plugged the end of the artifact into the double door's lock. It shouldn't have worked, but he just gave it a turn and the doors swung right open.

"Basically, yeah."

Vilkas groaned under his breath. "Can't you… Can't you go five minutes without having something to keep secret from us?"

"What was I supposed to do, lad, tell you all about it? You'd end up going crazy about the danger of it all, or something."

He was probably right, too. Besides, this wasn't anything on the scale of his last attempt to misdirect the Companions. Or maybe it was. Daedric Artifacts weren't to be underestimated, even if all they could do was open locks.

Inside the tower, there was a windowless stone chamber. There were metal bars around most of the walls, and at the center of the floor, there was a single big dwarven-looking lever, the handle pointing straight up. On the far side of the bars, four gears set into the floor meshed with teeth running up the walls.

"Oh, the lift's already up here," Brynjolf said, then walked right in.

Aela followed him cautiously. The chamber's ceiling was lit up with one of those painfully bright dwarven torch lamps. "Is that a bad sign?"

"No, it probably means someone left through here more recently than someone entered. Farkas, you too!" Brynjolf had his hand resting on the lever. With the free one, he beckoned for everyone to come close.

Farkas was looking singularly displeased with this little chamber. He walked stiffly into the middle of the chamber, glancing all around himself.

"Something wrong, Farkas?" Aela asked.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, which turned out to be a mistake because he still had his war paint on. Got his thumb and forefinger all smudged up. "Uh… Dammit. No, it's just this whole place. I don't like it. This used to belong to someone hundreds of years ago. And now it belongs to… What…"

Brynjolf picked up the thought. "Daedric cultists, aye, lad. And we're here to see why they're joining up with your werewolf hunters. Are you all ready for a little experience?"

Vilkas shrugged. "… Sure?"

The thief smiled and gave the lever a pull.

There was a metallic groan from somewhere beneath them, and a hissing rush of steam through pipes. A barred double door swung shut within the chamber, and then the floor dropped from beneath Aela's feet.

It wasn't all that fast, at first. Those teeth on the walls were climbing visibly past the bars. But the gears on the floor were turning, and after a couple seconds of warming up, those really _were_ fast.

This might have been strange, but Aela felt like this was what being a Companion was all about. They were inside a movable room, riding on metal gears deep into the earth to go make some noise in a cult of pestilence. That wasn't the sort of thing that a person could just make up. On the other hand, fighting the Afflicted wasn't great for boasting about in mead halls. Unappetizing.

There were a couple minutes of tense silence. Well, not quite silence. The rumble of dwarven machinery followed them the whole way down. The air in this chamber gradually grew warmer, and more humid, and warmer still. Aela sheathed her sword so her palm wouldn't get too sweaty.

Then the lift started to slow down, and eventually came to rest. The barred doors swung open again to reveal… Another closed double door.

Brynjolf had a sword drawn in one hand. He used the other to retrieve the Skeleton Key. "Be careful," he said as he turned the lock. "No idea what's on the other side."

Aela went through first. The split second the doors opened, she came right through, into… A room. A very big one.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. It was a hundred times worse than when she'd caught that Afflicted filth in the face. This felt like swimming in the stuff. She almost collapsed from the jolt of sickness alone.

The next was the light. Something was… Wrong, here. The only light seemed to come from a single lamp hanging from the middle of the ceiling, and its cage threw weird shadows all over the entire room. And everything seemed to be filled with a green haze.

There was no need to wonder why. This room was a huge, square-shaped hall, with a balcony ringing the edges. The lift opened up into a corner of that balcony, with a staircase downward just to their left. Huge, thick, steam-venting pipes, as wide as the trunks of fifty-year-old trees, came up from the floor on the left and right, bending right over the balcony floor to plug into the walls.

And that might have been where the focus of the room would have ended, once. Now, the floor below—and the ceiling, actually—were overgrown with some sort of thick green vines. And right in the middle of it all was some kind of tower of those same vines, standing high enough to come above the balcony floor. They laced around a clustered mass of big swollen sacs, glowing a sickly yellow-green. And at the top, someone had fitted on a stone assembly topped with a dish full of something horrible. Black-green sludge, letting out a horrible green smoke. Aela didn't want to think about where that must have come from.

The stone assembly was split into two matching likenesses of dragons. Fitting, Aela supposed. Peryite usually appeared in his shrines as a dragon, for some reason.

As she approached, she saw four more of those dishes, down on the floor around the column-thing. She moved with caution, but it was little use. The door had already made plenty of noise when it opened. If anyone was in here, they'd already know.

A deep, throaty voice called out from somewhere below. "You're back already?"

Exactly like that.

Someone with white hair and black robes walked out into the middle of the room. A man, by his posture. Actually, a high elf, with the reddened skin of the Afflicted. He turned to look up at the balcony. For a split second, his eyes met Aela's.

In that instant, she realized that this was the leader. Orchendor. The one in charge of this whole thing. Then something happened.

Aela was on her back. She'd been hit. Something cold was searing in her belly. She looked down to see a spike of ice stuck in her body.

Farkas and Vilkas jumped over the edge, one after the other, and slid down the sides of the pipes to land safe on the lower level. They were out of view. Aela could hear them shouting. This spike actually really hurt.

Suddenly, Brynjolf was standing over her, one gloved hand outstretched. The other was holding that vial again. She took both without saying a thing. The ice spike disintegrated the moment she tipped down a mouthful of the potion. Her heart was pounding, the thrill of battle was coursing through her veins, she was in total control of herself, but this all felt wrong. She just wanted to get it over with.

"Watch out," Brynjolf said. "He's doing—"

He grabbed her by the shoulder, pulled her downward. She didn't see the fireball, but she saw its glow pass over the floor around her, and heard the whoosh over her head, and felt the heat. It hit the wall or something, she didn't care.

Aela backed away from the ledge just long enough to take her bow back out and nock another arrow. When she returned, Farkas and Vilkas were flawlessly dodging a withering barrage of spells. That elf was a blur of spellcasting. Aela started to aim at him, but at the same time, Vilkas closed in for a swing, and something very strange happened.

It looked like the energy orb that surrounded an atronach, when it was being first conjured. It blossomed around Orchendor's body, hid him from view, and another orb like it appeared on the far side of the lower floor. Vilkas' swing passed through thin air. The high elf was well out of the way.

"I'd better go help them out," said the thief beside her.

"No, wait." Aela was trying to adjust her aim. She'd never seen a regular person moving around so fast. Even without the crazy conjuration teleportation, this elf was like a living fluid. "If he comes up here, I'll need you."

Her arrow barely managed to connect at all. She thought it hit him in the arm. Actually, it definitely did, because he started casting with just one hand. That might've been a relief, but ironically enough, neither of her shield-brothers actually had shields. They just had to dodge as best they could. While wearing heavy steel armor.

Farkas hung back, more towards the center of the room, while Vilkas closed in for another swing. The man actually swatted an ice spike out of the air with his sword. Aela couldn't believe her eyes.

Sure enough, once Vilkas had him cornered, he teleported again, this time up to the far side of the balcony.

There were a few seconds where no one was doing anything. The brothers couldn't reach him, and he looked to be out of magicka. He was prying out Aela's arrow, using a tiny bit of healing magic on himself, predictable stuff. And Aela was using the opportunity to line up another hit.

He must have heard the bowstring's twang, because the arrow just hit the wall behind where he'd been. Another pair of those conjuration auras, and he was back on the lower level.

Once again, Vilkas came straight at him. This time, though, the elf was ready. He raised both hands, and out came a stream of pure frost. There was no dodging this one. Her shield-brother was down on his knees in just a couple seconds.

Next to her, Brynjolf made an exasperated sound, then turned towards the staircase to down below. "That's it, I'm going down there," he said without turning around.

"Wait—Brynjolf!" It was no use. He was already on his way down.

Farkas was keeping his distance. Just far enough outside Orchendor's reach that he couldn't be hit by that frost stream, but just close enough that his greatsword was still a worry. That was good. It kept the elf distracted while Aela got her next arrow lined up.

And then, of course, Brynjolf ruined it by running right in there like an idiot and screaming at the top of his lungs.

It looked like Orchendor _hadn't _expected that. The tackle sent both of them tumbling. By the time they got back up, Brynjolf had locked in a grapple with him. No hands free, no teleporting.

Aela couldn't send an arrow in there, there was no guarantee she'd hit the right person. Brynjolf and Orchendor were wrestling like frenzied trolls, slamming into things, headbutting each other, making a total mess of everything. It didn't matter. Farkas was closing in. His sword was primed for a sideways swing.

Before long, Orchendor managed to get a hand free enough to spray his frost magic right in Brynjolf's face. The thief fell away, crying out, fumbling for his healing potion, or what was left of it. That was two down.

But by now, Farkas was right on top of him. He didn't make a sound, he just swung—and right at that very moment, the elf decided to teleport. Farkas' sword went through the orb just as it blocked his target from view.

On the far side of the room, Orchendor fell to his knees. His head landed a couple feet to his left.

Aela hurried down the stairs as quick as she could. When she made it out into the lower level, Brynjolf was already standing up, and Farkas was helping his brother back onto his feet.

"Well, that was informative," she said.

Once Vilkas was standing, Farkas wiped his blade clean with a rag. He offered Aela an indifferent shrug. "Teleporting. I've never seen that as a spell before."

Brynjolf came up by him. "Aye, me neither. For a diseased fellow, though, sure was strong."

"_But not strong enough."_

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Slow, enunciated, almost melodramatic. Aela looked around herself, scanning the room. Nothing.

Then when she looked back ahead, there was a ghost on the floor across from them. Actually, a ghost of a skeever. Blue, glowing, transparent, definitely a ghost. It was perched on Orchendor's headless corpse.

Aela paused. "… Peryite?"

"Correct." Now the voice was coming from the skeever. It didn't seem to be moving its mouth, it was just making that voice. "You have done an excellent job of disposing of my wayward servant. Unwittingly, perhaps, but still, commendable."

"You're a skeever," Farkas said blankly.

"A Daedric Prince," the skeever retorted. "Orchendor needed to die. He had lost sight of his place in my order. My followers have no business attacking such a trivial group as your Companions of Whiterun."

Vilkas seemed to be more or less recovered from that frost. He asked, "What do you know about that? What are they doing with the Silver Hand?"

It occurred to Aela that they were actually speaking with a real Daedric Prince. This should have felt more dangerous. The whole skeever thing probably wasn't helping. Immortal lords weren't supposed to look like giant rats.

"The brutish fools who call themselves the Silver Hand tempted him with an offer of petty glory. That no longer matters. Orchendor has been excised from this temple. You have been most convenient. I had planned to find a new champion to kill him, but this was much easier."

"I hope you're not planning on making us your new champions," said Vilkas.

"No. Certainly not. Still, the token I had intended to reward any would-be champion may as well be yours. It is a Dweemer artifact. I would rather rid myself of it."

"Dweemer?" Vilkas repeated.

"I think he means Dwemer," said Farkas.

The skeever stared silently at them.

"You're a skeever," said Brynjolf.

Vilkas turned to him. "You know what, Brynjolf?"

"I'm sorry! I thought he'd be a dragon."

"There is insufficient space in this chamber for that," said Peryite.

They stared silently at him.

A glowing mass appeared in the air. Flickering, spreading like flame, filling out a solid outline, then dimming down to reveal… A shield. It was unlike any Aela had seen. It had a spindly skeleton of dwarven metal, radiant lines and concentric circles and four panels branching out, but the actual surfaces were made of something white and iridescent, like mother-of-pearl. It was just floating there in the middle of the air.

"Spellbreaker," Peryite said, with a tone that could have been either reverence or disgust. "I would hope that one of you knows how to use a shield."

Brynjolf definitely didn't, and the two brothers had greatswords, so Aela stepped forwards slowly and reached out to the artifact. There was no handle. Just a white shiny boss in the middle. Her fingers ran over it ineffectually.

"Someone besides you, then," Peryite added.

Aela frowned and circled around the shield. The handle was actually on the convex face. Holding this would be like defending herself with a dish. She picked it up hesitantly, but it was oddly light.

She was holding a Daedric artifact. This brought the number of such things in the Companions' possession up to two.

"Thank you," she said without thinking about it.

Vilkas spoke up again. "What will you do now, Daedra?"

This shield really didn't look like it would hold up well to an actual sword strike. Going by the name, Aela imagined it was more built for deflecting magic. She sure could have used this five minutes ago.

Peryite waited for Aela to look at his skeever projection again before answering. "I will manage the lower order of things, as always. Now, our affairs here are at an end, so I will bid you farewell."

"I hope you don't take it the wrong way when I say I hope we don't meet again," said Vilkas.

"Fear not. I have no such plans." Peryite paused briefly. "Goodbye."

And with that, the ghostly skeever was gone, and the four Nords were left standing alone in this vile hall.

Immediately, Aela started back towards the stairs. "I have no idea what just happened, but I'm ready to get out of here."

Naturally, Brynjolf followed right behind her. "I think we just cleaned up a Daedric Prince's mess for him. How do you feel being the champion of Oblivion, lass?"

Truth be told, Spellbreaker didn't feel natural to carry. It felt more like a device than a shield. But it was easy to handle, and Aela didn't feel like it was corrupting her or something. It could have been worse.

"I'm nothing to the Daedra," she said.

"Well, when you say it like that, lass…"

"Which suits me fine. I'm a Companion of Whiterun. I don't need more than that, I don't want more than that."

"Spoken like a true Nord," murmured Vilkas from somewhere behind her.

Aela didn't waste any time getting into that lift. The rush from this whole thing was starting to wear off. She needed to get out of here. She'd been worried about bringing some sort of anger to Bthardamz, but this was just a mix of overwhelm and fatigue.

Getting back to the surface, back to the outdoors, was an extremely literal breath of fresh air. Aela and the others spent a good minute just standing there right outside the lift, quietly taking it in.

"We're going to have to go back through the Reach now, you know," Vilkas eventually said.

"Aye," Brynjolf nodded slowly. "But how much can it surprise us after all this?"

Aela wanted to think that he had a point. Half an hour ago, Aela wouldn't have imagined any of this would have happened. The same could be said of half a year ago, with the coming of the dragons, and the rise of the Dragonborn, and the war with the Dominion. They'd had plenty of time to get used to this sort of change.

But then, where would they be half a year from _now_?


	18. Kamian 4

Sundas, 9:10 AM, 29th of First Seed, 4E 202

Silent City

It was almost surreal down here. And not just because of the giant glowing mushrooms. Skyrim was at war, the Reach was a smoking ruin, the Legion was scattered, and by all rights, everyone should have been in total disarray. And through most of the province, they were.

But down here, life went on as normally as it ever could. The workers grew those strange bean things, the soldiers trained outside the Silent City, and no one was living in fear that the Thalmor would come burning the place down.

For a completely underground settlement, this one was awfully spacious. The Dwemer had built outwards much more than upwards—it took about an hour for him to walk in a complete circle around the city outskirts, and even from so far away, he could see the sun-orb hanging over the debate hall.

They'd never get enough people to fill this cavern properly. Which was fine, he supposed, because if they did, they'd need a dozen more of these lifts to the surface. The Silent City's previous owners hadn't really been fond of outside contact.

Kamian had been here a few times before, but today was the first time he'd decided to just give the whole place a tour. Every time before, he'd come to visit something, or someone. And while the workshop was truly fascinating, and that Gray-Mane fellow was pleasant enough, Kamian's urge to explore demanded more than that.

Thus, a towering man covered in beautiful black plate armor, walking through a mix of ancient stone buildings and giant glowing fungi, beneath an underground ceiling that glittered like the night sky … He couldn't make this sort of thing up. It mystified him how everyone here wasn't busy staring slack-jawed at the Dragonborn's choice of hideout. This place was so alien. How did anyone get used to it?

Kamian got as far as seeing where he'd started from. He'd circled around the entire Silent City. He'd started a little beyond the Alftand shuttle terminal, so seeing that huge golden egg-thing hanging there, he knew he'd made the full trip. But then he noticed something odd. He… Sensed something.

Someone was behind him. Not saying anything, not making a sound, but someone was coming up.

He spun around in the same motion that he drew his weapon. His sword stopped not six inches from the man's neck.

"Hey! No! No no no, put that down!" the man exclaimed, jumping back from him, hands raised.

This was a Nord fellow. Older-looking, missing a lot of hair up top, wearing typical worker's clothes. Kamian definitely didn't recognize him.

"Sorry." Still, he sheathed his sword. "I thought you might be one of the Falmer."

The Nord snorted incredulously. "Really? The Falmer! I suppose they were around down here, once. Anyway, I'm, uh… I'm sorry for sneaking up on you, I wasn't sure what _you _were."

"I'm often known as the Ebony Warrior."

"So I've heard. My name's Noster, I'm the Steward of Blackreach, according to your brother."

Noster held out his hand for a shake. Kamian took it.

"The Steward of Blackreach, huh? I guess that'd explain why I haven't seen you before. Walk with me?" He started back the way he'd been going. Sure, he could do another whole circuit around the Silent City's limits. Why not?

"Oh! Sure." Noster quickly caught up and entered step alongside him. "I don't usually bother with visitors, to be honest, not that we exactly get many down here… But someone as laden with magic gear as yourself really stands out, brother or no."

True enough, every single piece of Kamian's armor was enchanted, and very well-enchanted at that. He'd commissioned it, at a truly exorbitant fee, from the College of Winterhold. On the other hand… He frowned. "How do you figure I have magic gear on?"

"It's a long story," Noster said, with a hint of mirth.

Kamian glanced back over his shoulder. Not because he wanted to check anything behind him, but just as a gesture of emphasis. "… It's a long walk."

"Fair enough!" The words came along with a gentle chuckle. This man was striking Kamian as being strangely good-natured. No real better way of describing it. "Still, I'd rather start with you. You're the Dragonborn's brother, and no one here knows a damn thing about you. So what's your story?"

"You should really know better than to just ask someone that. You'll never get the truth that way."

Noster looked up at him skeptically, then shrugged and kept walking. "I suppose not. Still, it's better than nothing, right? At least I'd know what you have to say about yourself."

They were passing under the shuttle cables. One support column on their left, another on their right. For a split second, they were in the shadow of the terminal, and the sun-orb, that omnipresent golden ball floating in the fog, was blocked from view. Then it was right back.

"… All right, you have a point. Where do you want me to start?"

"At the beginning, maybe."

Kamian didn't know what to say to that, exactly He'd never really tried to tell anyone about this. At the beginning… That must have meant his early childhood. Or something like that. Honestly, he wasn't even sure why he was bothering with this Noster fellow, it just… Seemed like a good time to get this out there, perhaps.

He took a deep breath.

"My name is Kamian, I'm sure you know my brother's name. We, uh… We grew up together. For a while, at least. We actually grew up in the Imperial City. I was already seven when he was born. I… Heh. I remember looking at him when he was this… Pink little thing wrapped up in a crib, being just squealing all the time, and I remember thinking, by the Nine, was _I_ like that at one point?

"Anyway, yeah, the Imperial City. We had a nice little home, I remember a lot of sitting around in the kitchen, and watching, uh… Our mother was there for us most of the time. Our father, though, he was always, uh… He was a legionnaire. You were around for the Great War, yeah?"

Noster lit up. "Yes! But, uh… This is still your turn, so keep going, if you like."

"Right. So that happened, and… I still don't know where my father died. Somewhere out there, I figure. He just went out to fight, and… Never came home. So it was just the three of us, right up until the Dominion came to the Imperial City. I was nine years old when the city was sacked. My brother was only two.

"I swear… Up until that day, I'd never seen my mother scared. Not by any of the low-life scum in the back alleys, not even… Not even when my brother or I did something stupid, she didn't get too worried for us. I mean, she cared about us, loving parent, you know, but… I never saw anything really get to her. So when she came into the house, and she said the elves were coming in… And I could see the _fear_ on her face… That scared me, too.

"There was this sort of little cubby in the back room of our house. I don't really know how to describe it, it was weird. It wasn't exactly like a closet or anything, but it had a little door that you could lock with a key, so… That was good, I guess?"

Kamian paused. He really hadn't practiced this story. In his mind, it was becoming more and more obvious why not.

"She herded us both into that little cubby, and closed the door, and… I honestly don't know what she expected. The front door… Smashed open, in the other room. Worst sound of my life. I'm serious. My mother was great with a sword, probably better with a bow, but, um… No, she was great with a sword, but it didn't help. They disarmed her, and… Dragged her back to the other room…"

He had to stop. Too much to deal with. For some reason, this was just so much harder to put into words than to just have in his memories. He was going to start crying if he kept this up.

"I'm so sorry," Noster said quietly.

"I did what I could to take care of my brother. I just… Tried to keep him quiet, basically… I had the keyhole of the cubby to look through. I saw everything."

Kamian bit his lip. He was wondering why he was bothering with this all, again. This was going to ruin his composure. He just tried to focus, took a few more deep breaths… This was all water under the bridge, it couldn't hurt him now. He just had a story to tell.

"Do you mind if I skip this part, Noster? I just…"

"No, not at all. Tell me what you'd like to, if it suits you, I mean."

"We lived on the streets for a month or so. I just kept looking after my brother. I think that was the main thing keeping me going. He could barely even walk, he'd just learned to say my name… He had no idea what was going on. I had to take care of him. For a while, I didn't know if we'd even live to see another year. But we ended up in an orphanage. Grew up there. Learned about the world, learned how to live in it."

As Kamian spoke, he was slowly realizing that he essentially _had_ rehearsed this story, at least in his head. He just hadn't had anyone to tell it to. Being a wanderer, and a glorified mercenary before that, tended to have that sort of effect.

"I stayed in the Imperial City a while. Up until my brother came of age, basically. I remember being, I don't know, twenty or so, and obviously I wasn't living in the orphanage anymore, I had my own room to myself, I was basically selling my services with weapons to get by… I tried to stay in the Imperial City as much as I could. I think I was the only thing my brother had to look forward to, for a while.

"But eventually, he was grown up too, and… For a while, we were both living in Bruma, actually. It was just sort of… It helped to have a permanent place to call home, I guess, but we did a lot of things on our own, so if we were just wanderers, we'd never meet."

"Like it's been recently, you mean."

"Yeah, exactly. And the decision to leave… I didn't make that lightly. I only left a few years ago. I felt like I wasn't really, uh…"

Kamian didn't like this part of the story either. It hadn't been very comfortable trying to talk to Iseus about it, this wasn't an improvement.

"I dunno. I wasn't doing as much as I could in life, being tied down to one spot like that. So I came up here. It wasn't one of, uh… Not exactly one of those glory-seeking sort of things, although I'll concede right now, I'd love to make it into Sovngarde… But I don't want anyone's attention. I've stayed outside the cities. I usually send couriers in when I really need stuff. And I've been hunting dragon priests, because they're a threat and I can take them on.

"There was one strange thing, though. When the dragons came back, I ended up being attacked by one. Killed it, of course. And guess what, I absorbed its soul. Didn't even try. And I already thought the Dragonborn existed, in the form of my brother. I heard the Greybeards' summon, same as everyone else. So I traveled up there, and… Yeah, apparently we're _both_ Dragonborn. He's just the one who did the stuff of legend."

By this point, the terminal was a fair way behind the two of them. Kamian was still walking on stone paths, lit up with Dwemer lamps, but this path went over to a little dock on a milky-watered river. The buildings of the Silent City were all over to their right. Going this route, he'd soon be on soft earth and the only light would soon be from those crazy mushrooms. He hoped this wasn't bothering Noster at all.

"And I think I've heard the rest," Noster said. "Morokei, Labyrinthian, all that sort of business. It's a pleasure to meet you, Kamian."

"You too, Noster. I think it's your turn now."

"My turn? Oh, well, my story's not nearly as exciting."

"Well, that's a relief."

Noster laughed. "All right, let me think. This is strange, I remember Iseus asking for the same thing, just… With a lot more specific questions, basically. I'm trying to remember all my answers."

Another glance around himself. This time, he actually was taking in the perspective a little. The sun-orb was about as dim as he'd ever seen it, besides on the shuttle ride coming in. In the misty air of Blackreach, it had a blooming orange-yellow sort of aura. "Take your time, this is a big city to walk around."

"I'm a Nord, through and through. I'm also an Imperial citizen. I was born and raised in Solitude. I don't think I remember a time when I didn't want to be a legionnaire."

"I'm sure that had nothing to do with Castle Dour being on your doorstep."

"Pure happenstance."

"Go on?"

"I was twenty when I joined the Legion formally. I was already on first names with a lot of the guards, it came really natural. And I wasn't the best in a brawl, but as far as endurance? They made me a scout so fast. Just in time for the Great War, actually. Where I got to go down to Cyrodiil, fight in Anvil, lose an eye, get left for dead… They left me for dead. I'm not even sure how I lived, to be honest."

"Wait. You have two eyes."

Noster waved his hands at him. "Yeah, I know, I'll get there."

This was going to be interesting. People didn't generally just regenerate missing body parts.

"But that all happened. I fought my way all the way back home to Solitude, by myself. The Legion wouldn't take me back, I couldn't find work, I was a beggar in my own hometown. I was a beggar for half my entire life. It was that bad. I'm serious. But then… Then the Dragonborn came along. I don't understand what you, uh… I don't understand. You're telling me he was some fragile little boy who needed protecting from everything? When I met him, he was coming in hot on the heels of the news that he'd defeated Alduin.

"I'll never forget it. I was in my usual spot, and I saw this man in golden armor coming in through the streets… I figured if anyone had a septim to spare, it'd be someone dressed like that, right? Next thing I knew, he was taking me along for his journeys. Clean new clothes, plenty of food, excellent company, it was perfect. And he was _not_ shy, or… Vulnerable, or anything like that. From what I hear, and this is from Jarl Balgruuf's own mouth, the Dragonborn convinced him to try to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach. This was while the Civil War was still going, too."

That sounded like something Iseus would do. Kamian smiled to himself.

"But I guess I shouldn't be too surprised about that, honestly. With the Dragonborn's attitude. There's far, far more to him than meets the eye. He brought me here, asked me to help manage things… Fair, that's fair, I could do that. I was originally up in Alftand, supervising that all. And a few things happened. One, I got wrapped up in that whole thing with Hermaeus Mora and Vulthuryol. I got a new eye courtesy of the Psijic Order."

Noster must have caught Kamian's look, because he continued with, "Yes, that Psijic Order. The new eye can see magical auras. I needed it to find Hermaeus Mora's hideout. That's actually how I spotted you just now, by the way. Your whole body's all blue and glowing to me."

Good enough, he supposed. Kind of underwhelming. "What next?"

"Well… All right. This next part, I need you to understand I don't mean any ill will here. This is just the truth. Got it?"

"That's… Not a good sign, but I've got it, yes."

"Early on, I ended up reading a letter addressed to the Dragonborn. From someone initialed N, in Winterhold. It took me ages to follow up on it, with things going on in Alftand, but the N stood for Nelacar. Turns out the Dragonborn had plans to enchant a hundred fifty rings. One for every member of his army. And he wanted them to be totally magic-resistant, so he needed the biggest soul gems he could… Grand soul gems are too rare, so he came up with some way to turn common soul gems into black ones."

Kamian stopped.

Black soul gems were squarely in the territory of cultists and necromancers. Pure, pure evil. There were few, if any, crimes more terrible than condemning another man to an afterlife of eternal pain. And that was precisely what they did. Every time Kamian had come across a black soul gem in his travels, filled or empty, he had smashed it to bits and scattered the fragments so no one could use them.

And now Noster was saying that his brother had used not one, not two, but _one hundred fifty_ black soul gems. This was an act of wickedness on such a scale that Kamian just couldn't comprehend it. He was trying to imagine that many people, all suffering for the rest of time, and his mind wouldn't let him.

His words came very slowly, and very cautiously. "Noster, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Noster turned and looked up at him. The man was almost smirking. "Welcome to working with the one the dragons fear. Most of the people here don't know. And I haven't said anything because he's right, we need his army to keep all Skyrim from ending up like the Reach. But I am completely saying what you think I'm saying. Your brother has sent one hundred fifty people to the Soul Cairn. At minimum."

Kamian turned around and looked at the path behind them. The shuttle terminal was barely visible through the fog. He could see the actual shuttle waiting there, but it was little more than an oblong silhouette. In other words, he had some more walking to do.

And as he set off, he said without looking, "Thank you, Noster, you've been very informative."

The shuttle ride was supposed to be something like half an hour, but it felt ten times longer than that. Kamian actually felt a little sick. He'd expected his brother to have some secrets to keep. But even if he'd tried to come up with some hilariously exaggerated horrible thing Iseus might have been doing, it wouldn't have been as bad as this.

Normally, he'd have been enthralled by all the scenery rushing by, or maybe just how insanely quickly this metal pod was traveling, but that was all just something to wait through. Kamian didn't want to think about this. He just wanted answers.

The very second that shuttle door opened again, Kamian was out onto the terminal platform. The Alftand outpost wasn't that big at all. He could see the field laboratory right there down in front of him. Not that it was hard to find, with the huge garden of blindingly bright loud ringing plant things out back, but he had to get there fast. He just… He had to.

When he knocked on the double doors to the lab, they opened almost instantly. He almost gave his brother a rap right on the nose.

"Hey!" Iseus leaned back from his hand. It looked like he was dressed for alchemy. He wasn't usually the type to wear a silver circlet. "Uh… You're back already?"

"Can I come in?" Kamian ducked his head to not hit it on the doorframe.

"Sure, but I should warn you, I'm a little busy. Can't practice beating each other up right now."

Inside, the laboratory looked basically like always. No one else was in here, but the alchemy lab was dripping something from a glass tube into an earthen vial. The air smelled vaguely of flowers.

Kamian closed the doors behind himself. "Where's your buddy?"

"Oh, J'zargo? He's out right now. Gardening stuff. He'll be a while, I think." Iseus leaned back against the mantelpiece and gave him a look over. "I thought you'd be touring all day, did something happen?"

"Iseus, is it true about your work with the black soul gems?"

Kamian knew the answer as soon as he asked the question. Iseus' first reaction wasn't confusion, or annoyance, but a tiny flicker of panic. He could actually measure the exact moment when his brother realized he'd been caught. And he was sure that Iseus realized his lapse, as well. There'd be no hiding it now.

Though his helmet obscured his own expression, Kamian's own reaction was something of disappointment. He'd sort of already expected the answer would be yes. This wasn't the kind of thing that someone would just make up. But still… He didn't even know how to process this.

"I'd sort of hoped, uh…" Iseus cleared his throat, then swallowed. "I'd hoped to tell you under better circumstances, than this. I'm sorry I didn't say sooner. I, uh… I knew you wouldn't approve."

Now, that was the worst response Kamian had heard in a while.

"You knew I wouldn't approve? Are you serious? You're supposed to be the hero of Skyrim, you can't just do that to people!" He was trying really hard not to raise his voice. It wasn't really working. This wasn't even anger, he was just… Upset.

It occurred to Kamian that his brother was absolutely terrified right then. And for fairly good reason, too. One of them was in full armor, and the other wasn't. If this became a physical contest, it wouldn't last long. Not that he wanted to attack the guy. He didn't know _what_ he wanted, but he didn't want to fight.

A bit of a tremor entered Iseus' voice. "I didn't do it any more than I had to. I couldn't think of any other way to save us from the Thalmor. Please, please don't…"

"Please don't what?"

"I don't even know. Just give me a chance to explain why."

"Let me guess. You needed your personal army to be totally invincible to the Thalmor and didn't want to look for the grand soul gems to do that?"

"Where would you get a hundred fifty grand soul gems in less than a month?"

"Have you sent every one of your soldiers into battle at once?" Kamian paused. He already knew the answer was no, just by talking to them. "You could've just done ten or twenty enchants, passed them around the group. You didn't have to do something like this."

"It… Made a lot more sense than trying to juggle the enchants around. If the Thalmor tried anything, and we needed to put the entire Black Machine in action…"

"I don't even know why you have that army. Either one of us could take on an entire crowd of Justiciars and come out on top."

"I can only be in one place at a time, Kamian. That's not how to fight a war."

This was just sickening him more and more. Iseus wasn't apologizing, he was just defending his horrifying little plan, more and more, like Kamian himself was somehow in the wrong here. This was so, so wrong. What had happened to his little brother?

"So your optimal plan for war involves making yourself one of the most evil people in the world? Don't you realize what you've _done?_" Now he couldn't keep his voice down. "A hundred fifty people. Suffering forever. No penance, no justice, just pain for as long as time ever lasts. Because of you."

"What do you want me to do, feel bad? I did what needed to be done. Skyrim is protected now. It has an army that can hold up to anything the elves throw at it. I wouldn't have done this if I thought we could win the war without it."

"A good person has principles to answer to. Apparently you don't go by that whole sort of thing anymore. You just do horrible things to people and don't care, like a—"

"Dragon?" Iseus paused. "I am a Dragonborn, Kamian. You may not have noticed, but we don't exactly do a whole lot in terms of remorse. We kill people, we don't care, that's life. You're Dragonborn too. You should know how it feels by now."

"Wait a minute, what? How is remorse even supposed to matter? Evil acts are still evil, it doesn't matter what you do them for, not in the eyes of the gods. That's just a rule of life, and you're breaking it. Do you… You just… Does this even matter? To you?"

Iseus looked him in the eyes, suddenly calm. "Tell me you'd be just as upstanding if Sovngarde weren't waiting for you."

Something inside Kamian froze. He didn't know why, but something had just… That statement was… He was at a loss. He had no words.

"Yep." Iseus gave him an almost sarcastic nod. "You've got just as much dragon in you as me. You know we don't feel bad about ourselves like most people do. The main thing keeping _you _in line is the ideal of being a Nordic hero. Like I'm not."

Kamian turned and barged right back out the double doors. He needed space. Needed to think.

Damn right, his brother had been up to a lot. The black soul gems were nothing. He'd become… Something. That wasn't a line of thought. He couldn't even think.

He wasn't a glory-seeker. He had to be more than that. People who just wanted attention didn't deserve to be in Sovngarde. But… What about people who just wanted to be heroes? Wasn't that the whole idea of making it into the afterlife of honor, being a hero? But that wasn't right either. This was so horrible.

His brother hadn't been like this before. Not so confident, not so cold, not so sharp. And of course the only person alive who really knew him was like _this_ now.

He needed to just think.

The black soul gems were inherently evil to use. Iseus was using them because he believed it necessary to save Tamriel. Was it necessary enough to justify that evil? Maybe. But heroes didn't play with necessary evils. They won their battles with the power of honor and valiance, not with secret atrocities.

That was what Kamian wanted to do, he wanted to be worthy of Sovngarde. He didn't care so much about actually going there. If that were all he wanted, he would've just entered the portal after killing the dragon priest at Skuldafn, but that hadn't been his to use. The honorable thing to do would be to wait for his time.

It was so strange. Everyone expected the Dragonborn to be the shining paragon of Nordic virtues, he was the savior of the world, everyone loved him… And he didn't care about being a hero. The two brothers really should have switched places.

There was probably some kind of way to resolve this, but he couldn't think of it. He wasn't going to punish his brother for this, he understood the reasoning behind it, it was a sickening way to think but he did understand it. But this whole thing was bewildering. Somehow, one sentence had just ruined everything.

Behind him, Iseus' voice said, "Kamian, we can still do the right thing."

Whatever that meant.

His brother was still talking. "Look… Kamian… When you asked me why I haven't taken the Thalmor on by myself… It's true, I should be working with allies, I didn't just make that up. But ever since… Pretty much ever since I defeated Alduin, I've been down here, doing alchemy and enchanting and all this stupid stuff, and do you know why?"

A pause.

"I can't keep fighting, Kamian. I can't do it. Ever since I crossed the border into Skyrim, I was traveling through horrible places and fighting enemies by the hundred and my life was completely constantly in danger and that was _every single day_. I could never just relax for a minute. I was never safe. One wrong move, and I'd die. I just… I couldn't handle the strain of that. I needed to stop. I might be Dragonborn, but it doesn't mean I'm not human."

And, as it went unsaid, the same applied to Kamian. He hadn't ever felt so endangered during his travels, but then… He hadn't been on a quest to defeat the World-Eater himself. He couldn't judge.

If either of them did ever make it to Sovngarde in the end, they'd have a damn strange story to tell.


	19. Odahviing 3

Sundas, 1:50 PM, 29th of First Seed, 4E 202

Eastmarch

Odahviing's body was failing.

Even with the rapid healing all dragons possessed, it took nearly two hours for his wing to mend. He still lacked the energy to fly for more than a minute at a time. He would take to the air, the muscles of his wings would start to ache and burn, it would become too much, and he would need to stop and rest on the ground below.

He had changed destinations. The only place to travel to, the only place he could think of, was the very place Morokei had told him to visit. Paarthurnax's place of dwelling. The highest point in Skyrim, in all Tamriel.

He'd never be able to get up there with his body so ruined.

After Alduin had been defeated, Odahviing had understood, intellectually, that his life would last only as long as this body did. It was horrible enough a thought even in abstraction. But now…

That staff had done something to him. It was like that scale pried from his jaw. Morokei had taken away some part of his being. He could feel it missing in his body. The strength was gone from him. He struggled to stand under his own weight. Something in him, something he had taken for granted, had been bled nearly dry. It felt unnervingly hollow.

Odahviing had once been a loyal lieutenant of Alduin. He had personally killed thousands of mortals in that time. He knew exactly how fragile a living body could be, how easily a creature could be extinguished. But now it was his own body on the line. A little longer in Morokei's hands, and he would no longer be alive to contemplate this.

He had no words to describe how that made him feel, but that this must have been how all those mortals had felt too. Faced with the threat of death, unable to stop it, and there were no words.

And he knew how Morokei had felt, as well. The thrill of domination. He'd even specifically stated his happiness at putting Odahviing at his mercy. And it must have been so exciting to get to use that staff. Tearing the life out of the dragon's body, bit by bit, leaving him barely alive at all… And leaving Morokei overflowing with radiance. The priest's enjoyment would have been obvious even if it hadn't hurt so deeply.

That had truly happened to him. And he still lacked the faintest idea of what Konahrik's mask was for.

He tried to clear his thoughts of… Whatever was clouding them. The Staff of Magnus had affected his body, he thought, not his mind. There was no reason for him to be so impaired. It was clear what actions he needed to take. He needed to get to Paarthurnax, and he needed to do it quickly.

Odahviing would make this flight even if it killed him. He almost hoped it would. Whenever someone raised him again, he would start with an unspoiled body.

Something was missing from inside him, but he forced himself off the ground and into the sky all the same.

Minutes passed. The ground, the steaming pools and pale brown earth of Eastmarch, passed beneath him. His wings were burning, screaming at him to land, but this was the wrong place. He would not indulge himself with so much at stake. He would not allow his body to fall, even if it was hanging onto life by a gossamer thread.

This was killing him. Quite literally. The strain of flight was slowly breaking him, whatever parts of him were still intact. He was in the air, he was moving, but his body could not tolerate this exertion. He needed to rest, but… Not yet.

When he finally arrived at the Throat of the World, it was mid-evening.

Sure enough, there waited a dragon, with his worn scales and tattered wings, sitting as he always did on his rocky point. At least, that was what Odahviing thought he saw. By this point, he was seeing stars. His vision had gone dark in the corners. He barely recognized the dragon's silhouette as Paarthurnax.

And he lacked the energy for a graceful landing. He simply let himself fall. His belly thudded into the snow hard enough to knock out what little breath remained in him. But the moment he could speak again, he said, _"Morokei."_

There was no relief in this landing. His muscles had long since resigned to numb self-destruction. He was sure the effort of the flight would take hours more to heal from. After such terrible strain, his body should have been flooded with the sensation of much-needed rest, but he was barely conscious.

Paarthurnax must have taken off from his perch, because he was suddenly right by Odahviing's side. _"What did you say?"_

Odahviing had to speak very slowly. His mind was barely holding together. There was information, he needed to convey it… He couldn't focus. He had to talk. _"Morokei. He's free in Skyrim. He has the Staff of Magnus. And the mask of Konahrik."_

Paarthurnax paused. _"You are serious?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Very well."_ There was a strange, disquieting graveness to the elder dragon's voice. Odahviing was in no shape to wonder what was on his mind. But the reply was followed by a call to the sky.

"_Du-nir-jot!"_

"_Nah-ag-liiv!"_

"_Nos-qo-riik!"_

With each call, a crack of thunder. Thu'ums were not meant to be used in quick sequence, but Paaarthurnax simply kept going.

"_Vol-sos-qeth!"_

"_Viin-tu-ruth!"_

"_Nir-ved-aus!"_

"_Ziil-ah-maar!"_

The force of the Thu'ums shook the very air, but when they concluded, there was no sound at all. Even the wind stood still.

"_That's not all of us,"_ Odahviing said, without moving.

"_It is all of us who matter. The rest are out of our reach."_

The red dragon did not reply. His body, his very senses, remained unfit to serve him. Calling for a meeting was the obvious response to this news. But he could not even begin to think of what this was meant to accomplish.

After a minute, Paarthurnax spoke up again. _"I look forward to the day you can arrive at this peak without suffering calamitous injury first."_

Odahviing wished he had a witty retort for that. Unfortunately, he was preoccupied with the calamitous injury in question. They simply waited in silence for a few minutes more.

The first to arrive was, of course, Nosqoriik. He came to land on the rocky mound which Paarthurnax had just left.

"_Is he all right?"_ Nosqoriik asked.

Odahviing's body was not answering him. Truth be told, he felt like he was going to lose the contents of his stomach. His body was starting to notice what sort of punishment it had been put through, flying here.

It was such a strange thing. Dragons had once been the terror of the skies, the undisputed rulers of Skyrim, like the aspects of gods they were meant to be. Then the Dragonborn had come, Alduin had been killed, and now they were all little more than oversized lizards with wings.

With the ability to set entire villages on fire, of course. Then again, the mortals seemed to be able to do that to entire _landscapes_.

Paarthurnax answered the query with, _"He will be. I summoned more dragons than yourself. Let us wait for them."_

Nosqoriik left the point of rock in the same way that the elder dragon had, besides landing on Odahviing's far side. Two dragons, one at either flank. At least he appreciated one of their company.

"_Odahviing,"_ Nosqoriik was talking nearly right down his ear. _"Odahviing, get up."_

He'd certainly have liked to. If he had his way, he'd be standing tall and giving this acrobatic upstart of a dragon a good lecture on how to treat one's superiors. Or something like that.

But instead, he couldn't even move. Similarly to mortals, dragons had some capacity to suppress pain in dire situations. During a struggle for power, it could make the difference between victory and defeat. The only problem was that now the pain was catching up with him. It wasn't just his wings, it was his entire body. This was almost as bad as being actually drained by that staff. His muscles felt like they were about to liquefy.

Nosqoriik picked his head up. _"What's wrong with him?"_

"_We will discuss the matter in depth when the others arrive,"_ said Paarthurnax. _"I do not wish to have to say it more than once."_

"_I'm likely going to be here with you two for half an hour before the next dragon reaches here. A long time to spend avoiding the matter of why my ally is paralyzed."_

"_How did you reach the Throat of the World so quickly? Fast flight or not, you surprised me."_

"_I was near the city of Whiterun. Not what I would describe as a long trip."_

But before Paarthurnax could ask any more questions, the next dragon arrived.

Odahviing could only see what his eyes let him see from here. His body was exhausted enough that simply picking up his head was too much. It was a miracle he was still even conscious, truly. But he didn't need to move when the new arrival landed directly in front of him. Black-gray scales, vertical spines, it was definitely Viinturuth. He and Odahviing had never had much of a connection. This was little more than reuniting with a long-lost lukewarm acquaintance.

Dunirjot was next, and then Nirvedaus. He could see neither of them, but by the way they spoke to each other, it was obvious. Once, the two of them had been notorious for their terrible treatment of mortals, even by the standards of dragons. They had never seemed to mature much beyond that.

Over the following minutes, several more arrived. Odahviing knew they needed to account for Nahagliiv, Volsosqeth, and Ziilahmaar, but he could not bring himself to look. His body couldn't heal that quickly.

This was less than comfortable. The snow was cold, the air was colder, his body ached unbearably, but that was no excuse for being so vulnerable in front of his peers. If Paarthurnax hadn't been standing right over him, he would have considered this extremely dangerous. There were nine dragons present, including himself. He was totally surrounded by his kin.

In fact, this was the greatest gathering of dragons at the Throat of the World, perhaps the greatest anywhere, ever since Alduin's defeat. They had ceased to dwell among each other long before the Nords had started writing about them. A meeting like this was a rarity indeed. Laying still on the ground in the middle of it all wasn't the best.

There was no exchange of Thu'ums. Ever since Paarthurnax had discarded his Way of the Voice, he had ceased to enforce that custom. There was no reason for dragons to assert their power to one another upon meeting. If they had to treat one another as such adversaries, they could never truly unite. That was the principle, at least.

Paarthurnax began the discussion the very moment the dragons had settled.

"_We are all in danger, brethren. Morokei has escaped his tomb. He roams Skyrim unchecked."_

No one replied. The only sound was the rushing wind.

"_He has acquired the Staff of Magnus… And the mask belonging to the mortal once known as Konahrik."_

Again, no reaction. This puzzled Odahviing. Should they not have been crying out in fear? He would have been. It was as though they already knew … or simply had no clue what this meant.

"_We must be prepared for him, for he will certainly target any of us that he can."_

"_Konahrik's mask,"_ intoned Nosqoriik. _"The mask of the forbidden name."_

"_Yes. Its power is very truly untold. I was not there to fight him, unfortunately, so I cannot measure its capabilities."_

"_Nor I, Paarthurnax. When Konahrik rebelled, I was in Haafingar."_

Konahrik's uprising came in the latter stages of the Dragon War. He must have taken advantage of the unstable hold of the dragons on their subjects, which obviously had not ended well for him. Odahviing had not been there either. If he recalled correctly, he was _dead _at the time. He hadn't been raised until a matter of months ago.

Paarthurnax stepped back from him and looked around the group. _"Who here was present to fight Konahrik?"_

And again, all seven of the others were silent. Odahviing could feel the discomfort mounting. Something was very wrong here.

Besides the general outline of Konahrik's betrayal, he knew essentially nothing about the matter. But the general outline did include that he faced dozens of dragons single-handedly, and that it occurred during the Dragon War, so Alduin would not have been present long enough to raise any dragons Konahrik slew.

If no one else here had fought him, that allowed for two possibilities. One was that Alduin had deliberately avoided raising any other dragon who had fought the rebellious priest. The other was that every dragon but Alduin to enter that fight had died, and in such a way that prevented them from ever being raised again, like with the Dragonborn.

Odahviing was sure his peers were all going through the same line of thinking. He knew he wasn't the most intelligent of their number. Maybe some of them had thought of things beyond what he had.

Nahagliiv spoke up. _"If I am not mistaken, the Staff of Magnus absorbs magicka, which is useless against us. But if no one knows what his mask does, we cannot counter it."_

Dunirjot asked, _"What about Odahviing? I assume he just encountered Morokei. What does he have to say?"_

This was inevitable. He'd been gathering his strength as best he could, preparing for the question of what he had seen, but he felt no better for it. His mind was still in a haze of dull pain and distant senses. This was no condition to converse with anyone in.

Still, he struggled to pick up his head. The moment he did, he instantly regretted it. An explosion of pain and dizziness and he couldn't even tell. He ended up resting his nose on the ice, with just enough room to move his mouth to talk. His eyes were shut. They were having trouble seeing properly anyway.

"_Mzulft. Dragonborn sent me to Mzulft, to find him. He was already right there. Hit me with something, I landed… Told me to come back and tell you all."_

It was the best he could do. Every word was its own little battle to try to say. Maybe they'd be able to do something with all of that.

Nahagliiv answered first. _"But why are you so weakened? You should be flying circles around us."_

"_The Staff of Magnus, I think,"_ said Nosqoriik_. "It can drain more than magicka. It will drain life if there's no magicka in the way."_

Viinturuth said, _"I imagine that was what Mzulft was for, too. The machine of light in that city would be able to find Morokei by his staff."_

"_And we're supposed to fight Morokei when he has that?"_ Nahagliiv asked.

"_He seems to want us to,"_ said Nosqoriik.

"_No, he doesn't."_ That was Volsosqeth. He had remained quiet so far. _"Morokei sent this one back as an example. As of now, we are all at his mercy. Defy him, and we end up like Odahviing here. Or worse."_

'This one'? He was being referred to as 'this one'?

Odahviing had already felt horribly afraid. The encounter with Morokei had been nearly literally heart-stopping. He could still feel those cold little hands creeping over his scales. He'd been so defenseless, and Morokei had been so merciless. It was the stuff of nightmares. But until just now, he had not felt ashamed.

Laying here before the other dragons, he'd mainly felt endangered. They could hurt him, and he wouldn't be able to fight back. It had never even occurred to him that he might be still alive simply to prove a point to his kin. And now they were all looking down upon him, treating his damaged being like a lost battle to learn from.

Now was when the shame began. Odahviing wanted to hurl himself off the side of the mountain to get out of the others' sight. He wasn't a dragon anymore, not to them. He wasn't an aspect of a god, he wasn't a giant lizard with wings, he was nothing more than an example of someone else's cruelty. A victim.

Nirvedaus said, _"We have a choice. Submit to Morokei and be spared, or defy him and be killed. Alduin is no longer here to intervene."_

Dunirjot replied, _"The Dragonborn sent his subject here to find Morokei, so he must have intended to fight."_

"_I have little confidence in the Dragonborn's power against something so grand."_

"_He does have more power than us."_

"_We'll last longer than eighty more years."_

Those two were far too friendly with each other. Odahviing hated it.

"_Listen, all of you."_ That was Paarthurnax. Finally, a voice of reason in this whole mess. _"We face two questions. The first is whether Morokei is indeed more powerful than the Dragonborn. We have no answer to this. The second is whether Morokei's power matters."_

"_Yes, it matters,"_ said Volsosqeth.

He was met with a chorus of assent from most of the other dragons.

Nirvedaus spoke again. _"The only reason Konahrik failed to overpower us was because Alduin was completely unkillable while in Mundus. Not simply immortal, but impossible to kill. Impossible to destroy. The Dragonborn is very possible to destroy. He may be an exceptionally powerful mortal, but he is just that, a mortal."_

"_That same description applies just as well to Morokei," _Nosqoriik said sharply.

"_Morokei now wears a mask so powerful that Alduin tried to erase it from history. What kind of power do you think motivated him to do that?"_

"_What do you plan to do, Nirvedaus? Abandon his cause and join the new warlord in town?"_

"_I never followed his cause. I follow the cause of power, as is the dragon way. The Dragonborn showed greater power than Alduin, and so the subject of our loyalty changed. Morokei now shows greater power than the Dragonborn. The subject of our loyalty is due to change again."_

"_Morokei hasn't shown us anything besides tormenting my companion here. You can't possibly expect me to believe this is more than what the Dragonborn could do."_

His companion. Odahviing liked that.

"_Morokei has far more potential to overpower him—"_

"_He has completely unknown potential. Your argument is hollow. You just want to follow someone who will let you indulge your thirst for domination."_

Nirvedaus growled in reply, but said nothing more.

This was not going how Odahviing had wanted. He hadn't been in any frame of mind to want anything, but this was just horrible. His own fellow dragons were seriously considering the prospect of turning on the Dragonborn.

And he was fairly sure that this was exactly what Morokei had intended. There was no better option than to call this meeting, of course. He couldn't have just left his kin uninformed and unsuspecting. Morokei would have been free to dominate them one by one until there were none left to resist. But here Odahviing lay, right in the middle of their meeting, as living proof that the Dragonborn had competition as their leader.

He was being used as an example. He could not believe this. And his body still did not cooperate with him.

Paarthurnax addressed them all one more time. _"In the end, this comes down to a choice. I will not make it for you, because I cannot make it or you. The choice is this: Either succumb to the urges that have made us the slaves of our supposed masters for millennia, or take a stand and fight for the world that we have saved."_

"_Either submit and live, or fight and die,"_ said Viinturuth. _"You would have us throw our lives away for an ideal. Alduin proved himself unfit to rule. He could not bear his own power in the world. Morokei has done no such thing. We would fight him simply because you have told us to."_

Odahviing had to do something. Had to _say_ something. Paarthurnax's persuasion was failing. For so long, the person telling them not to blindly defer to power had conveniently been the most powerful person alive anyway. Now, unless they said the right thing, But he was still sitting through unending pain all through his body. His thoughts were impossibly tangled. There was a right thing to say, and he just couldn't think of it.

All he could get out was, _"Don't submit to him!"_

Viinturuth snorted contemptuously. _"Pardon me. I must correct myself. We would fight him simply because you and your wretch have told us to."_

Volsosqeth spread his wings and reared back where he stood. _"So we agree? Let us seek him out, before he might become inclined to do the same to us."_

"_We agree."_ Dunirjot did the same. _"Come with us, my kin, if you desire to live."_

And before Odahviing could say another word, there was a great scraping of rock and beating of wings, and the dragons were in the air. One of them roared, and they took off to the east. Towards Mzulft.

So that was it. The dragons were no longer the mortals' allies. In a matter of minutes, Morokei's influence had utterly destroyed their support for the Dragonborn. There was nothing to be done for it.

Odahviing didn't even know what to feel about that. He knew they must have just lost something great. The benefits of their cooperation with the Dragonborn, perhaps, or something broader, like the hope of their changing their ways. It was greater than his impaired comprehension could grasp. It mainly confused him.

Had his peers truly been so eager to return to their old ways? Apparently so. They likely would have been far harder to persuade if the Dragonborn had been feeding their urges. The ones that he and Paarthurnax had spent so long trying to work through.

He opened his eyes. Paarthurnax still sat on one side of him, Nosqoriik on the other. Of course Nosqoriik had stayed. He might have been an arrogant showoff in the skies, but at least he was good where it counted.

After a moment, he realized they weren't alone. One more dragon remained on the mountaintop, resting on the rock upon which Paarthurnax had first been. A distinctive, sleek specimen, with scales of brilliant gold and green. Ziilahmaar. He had not said an entire word this entire time.

When he saw Odahviing looking, he shifted forward to land on the ice. For a long moment, the two of them simply watched one another. It was as though they were exchanging Thu'ums, but without the Thu'um. They simply appraised one another in silence.

For his part, Odahviing thought Ziilahmaar obviously had something on his mind. He hadn't left with the others. But he had no better insights than that, not in his state of being.

"_Odahviing,"_ Ziilahmaar said softly. _"Why do you not want us to submit to him? You, upon whom Morokei has already visited his malice?"_

Paarthurnax turned around to look at this last dragon._ "Perhaps he—"_

"_No. Paarthurnax, I implore you. Let him speak for himself."_

Even now, even when presented with this perfect opportunity to make at least a little difference, Odahviing could not think of what to say. Even at his best, he was no master of words like Paarthurnax. How could he be expected to persuade anyone?

Then again, at this point, what did he have to lose? He simply opened his mouth and let words come out.

"_Morokei is abhorrent. He is absolutely repulsive. He wields power because he enjoys having power. We picked the dragon priests because they were mortals who thought like us, and it turns out they are mortals who think like us at our worst. He is the most vile little animal I have ever… Ever laid eyes upon, and he could flay me alive before I would submit to him."_

A pause. Ziilahmaar glanced to Paarthurnax, then back to him.

Three dragons remained here, five had set off for Mzulft, and one remained here. Anyone who hadn't been to this meeting was spending these months in hiding either way—so it really was the nine of them. Ziilahmaar's decision would make the difference between near-even numbers and two-against-one.

No matter what happened now, the dragon race had been irrevocably fractured. They had waged war on the mortals before, but never on one another. Not like this. There was no ideal course of action from here. It would be dragons against their own kin, with no limit to their willingness to destroy, and there would be far more suffering before this was over. All they could do now was try to survive.

And Odahviing's contribution to this critical moment was a bit of improvised rambling.

The green-gold dragon inclined his head in the fashion of a shrug. _"Satisfactory."_


	20. Eredra 4

Morndas, 3:22 PM, 6th of Rain's Hand, 4E 202

Whiterun Hold

According to the Nords, when it came to traveling, their own homeland was like enemy territory. Bandits, necromancers, witches, Daedric cultists, werewolves, vampires, Falmer, draugr, and that wasn't even getting into the endless list of deadly wildlife. It sounded like a death sentence to try to navigate.

Either Eredra was impossibly lucky, or the Nords had nerves of glass, because she and her escorts hadn't been attacked by so much as a skeever this entire time. Even after passing the Throat of the World twice, the trip had gone without even a hint of unexpected interference. And for her, it actually _was_ enemy territory.

The mission to Eldergleam Sanctuary had been a total success. The tree's bark was just as unyielding as she'd been told, but Nettlebane's pointed blade pierced it as though it were pinewood. They'd gotten all the sap they needed. Granted, the bit with the spriggans going crazy was a little unexpected, but they'd lived.

Ever since then, it'd just been one long walk back west. From their starting point in Eastmarch, Eredra and company had to travel across a good two-thirds of Whiterun Hold.

They'd passed by the capital only a couple days in. From a distance, Dragonsreach stood tall over the plains the same way the Throat of the World stood tall over the horizon. In other circumstances, it might've looked foreboding, but since they were still in their disguises, Eredra had no problem walking right in and refreshing their supplies. It was amazing how much a Thalmor officer could get done just by staying out of uniform.

Because Skyrim's civil infrastructure was a miserable joke, they didn't really do a lot of traveling by road. Not that it mattered. This hold was basically one big road anyway. Once they crossed the measly little river (which had about four hundred bridges for some reason) in front of the capital, it was just walking over totally uniform plains. Day after day of moving westward, and the only thing that seemed to change was where the Throat of the World was compared to compass directions.

And that was how they'd traveled, all the way until they started to close in on Sleeping Tree Camp itself.

It'd been too long. None of this province was like home for Eredra, but she'd come to sort of like it at the camp. It was quiet, and peaceful, and no one bothered her because she was the highest-ranking officer there. And the tree was actually rather pretty, day and night alike. It was mid-afternoon when they first saw the pink speck in the distance.

It took a while for Eredra to realize something wasn't right. The officers on site had been told to keep a low profile, so it wasn't like they were going to keep the giant's bonfire burning. But as they got closer, she realized no one was even on watch. There was a tree, and next to it was an entrance for a little cave, and that was it. No people.

Around the point where they could've sent a bound arrow over the tree, Lusay put on a mage armor spell. Eredra and Darco followed out of habit.

"You want to use that life detection, Darco?" the commander asked.

"Uh… Yeah, actually, better idea." He readied another alteration spell, gave it a cast, and for a split second, a huge mass of blue glowing auras appeared right behind the cave's hill. It vanished as soon as it appeared.

That was a detection spell, all right. And there was only one such spell besides detection of the living.

Eredra stopped in her tracks. "Oh, shit."

The moment she realized what she'd just seen, a few more things hit her all at once.

They'd been found out. The Sleeping Tree endeavor had been discovered. And they'd been found out by someone who could kill an entire garrison of Thalmor officers. Also, that someone had deliberately left all the bodies right here on the spot. They must have known the Dominion would find the remains eventually.

This sounded like the Dragonborn's work. It wouldn't be the first time he'd left a group of elite soldiers in a burnt pile.

Then again, it didn't really matter who'd done this. The end result was still the same.

"We should give them a proper burial," said Lusay. "I mean, we can't just leave them like that."

"Should we go get backup? From Markarth?" Darco flashed the spell on again for a moment. The mist was still there.

Eredra had changed her path to circle around the hill. She already knew what she'd find, but… She had to see it. It was a good thing they approached it from this angle, she supposed. Seeing the remains from afar would've made the approaching walk so much worse.

As she walked, the edge of something big and black-gray emerged from behind the hill. She instantly shut her eyes. Correction to the previous thought. Seeing the remains up close was much worse. It took her a few seconds to open her eyes again.

These had been Thalmor officers. Eredra hadn't really liked most of them. But they'd been her allies and colleagues, and now they were… Not just dead, but stacked up and burned to ashes. The pile reached her chest in height. She felt more than a little sick.

She'd never get to bother Major Asmo again. Somehow, that was the worst part of this all.

"I'm glad we weren't here for this," said Lusay, from somewhere behind her.

The lieutenant had a point, too. They probably would've been killed. Eredra was a better mage than anyone else here had been, but against someone like the Dragonborn, what good was that?

"Yes." She turned around to face her two subordinates. "Lusay, I need you to go to Markarth and give General Colaeon an account of everything that's happened here. Darco, you're staying here with me. We have a tree to watch."

Lusay's eyebrows shot up. "You're staying here? Even after… This?"

"Especially after this. Nothing the Aldmeri Dominion is doing matters more than the Sleeping Tree endeavor. We're going to need reinforcements, and a lot of them."

"How much is a lot?"

"I think we'll let them decide that."

This sort of talk wasn't really military standard. Eredra was their commanding officer. Lusay shouldn't have been questioning her. Still, for lack of any actual advisors, it seemed to make sense for her to at least listen to what these two had to say. Even if all they were offering was incredulous questions.

Lusay didn't waste any time in moving on. She didn't even stop to rest, she just kept walking right on, with nothing but the supplies on her back to last her through the Reach. And that was that. Clearly, military standard wasn't everything.

As the lieutenant retreated into the distance, she left Eredra and Darco standing in front of the Sleeping Tree. Besides the three of them, there was no one around for miles. The only sounds were the breeze over the plains, and the ringing of the nirnroots around the pool.

The two officers remaining just stood there for a good half-minute or so, looking at nothing in particular. Eredra had responded the way her training had taught her to, with tactical thinking and so on, but this was such a shock. Everyone she'd left behind at this camp was dead. Their corpses were just a stone's throw away.

"You know," Darco eventually said, "sometimes I wonder if… Maybe this is what we deserve."

Eredra glanced up at him. She'd been looking at the tree's reflection in the pool. "What? You mean with the attack here?"

The younger elf shook his head. "I mean with us being mortal. Look at us. We're trying to become immortal, all of us Altmer, we want to be like the Divines. But we don't act like it. We act terrible. It's not even like… I mean…"

"Eh?"

"It's not even like we're just doing what we have to. You know, in order to claim our rightful place, or anything like that. Whose idea was it to burn down the entire gods-damned Reach? How is that advancing our ultimate goal?"

Again, the absence of a military standard. This sort of thinking was punishable by death to publicly speak in the Thalmor's ranks. But that was back in Alinor, where there were eyes everywhere, and no secrets were kept. Here, they could be themselves. Which was sort of horrible, actually. Life for Thalmor officers was easier in the enemy's home territory than their own.

Darco went on. "If we're going to end up being gods, shouldn't we act the part? I'm pretty sure the Aedra don't make a habit of stupid needless violence everywhere. Even most mortals don't. We're just… I don't get it. How does this work?"

These were questions that just weren't normally acceptable to ask. It was unfortunate, too. The Thalmor probably could have gotten a lot more done through open, constructive discussion, but they were just too troubled for that sort of thing.

"You know," Eredra said slowly, "I don't know a single Thalmor officer who hasn't killed anyone. I'm sure you remember your first kill, I know I remember mine. And the… The exact details there just aren't important, but I remember what it felt like. I realized just how _fragile_ a mortal being is. We carry out our entire lives in these tender little scraps of flesh and blood, and if you just… Prod them the wrong way, the life is over.

"And at the time, I was just amazed at how easy it is to end another person's life. But looking back on it… We are so, so much better at destroying things than creating them. It's just so much easier for us. And by us, I don't just mean the Thalmor. I mean any being in Mundus, man or mer or beast or who even knows. That's why Mehrunes Dagon is such a threat for us, you know, he likes change. He likes real, lasting change. Can't get that in Oblivion. And the easiest, best way to make some kind of change in Mundus is to destroy things."

Darco frowned at her. "When did you learn all about Mehrunes Dagon's mindset?"

"Still not important. Main thing is, until the day we change the world, it's going to keep going like this. Mortals will act the way mortals act, and there'll be pain and scarcity and suffering and death and all those things we hate. Right up until the day it changes."

"But then why do we deserve to be immortal?"

"Because we can?"

"No, I mean, we as in Altmer. The whole purity thing confuses me so much. If I have a… Say, a Bosmer grandfather, I'm not a pure Altmer, so I can't make it into the group destined to be gods. But if I had a Bosmer in my family a hundred generations ago, no one's going to know. Or care."

Eredra barely held back a smile. She'd had that same thought herself a hundred times over. It was nice to know that it wasn't an unbeaten path of logic.

"And if you're an Altmer who doesn't like the Thalmor, you're not making it into that group either. The in-group is just people that our higher-ups like, the race thing is totally arbitrary."

"So the elven supremacy thing is just totally made up."

"Well, not entirely. We seem to be the only people really interested in leaving this kind of existence behind. I think the Nords actually _like_ it here. But if we can do it, we will. That's basically what elven supremacy boils down to. We're not just saying the world is fine, like the Nords are, or saying it's a worthy challenge, like the Dunmer do. They might not question the way the world works, but we do. Our goal is to change it, and get ourselves out of this… Horrible… Nightmare world that they call the mortal plane."

This had basically nothing to do with Thalmor propaganda. On the other hand, no one really believed that stuff, or at least, they shouldn't have believed that stuff. The whole elven-supremacy thing was just there to make their bid for power look more legitimate.

It occurred to Eredra that this conversation couldn't have had a much more bizarre context. The two of them were standing next to an ancient mystical tree, and their colleagues were all piled up in a lifeless heap of ashes just beyond the hill. Then again, this was about as extreme as it had to be for two Thalmor officer to have guaranteed privacy.

And she would've asked for what he thought Lusay's opinion was on this all, but she was pretty sure this conversation was only happening specifically because Lusay wasn't here. It said something about their organization that an honest conversation couldn't have more than two people in it.

Darco gave her a skeptical look. "I'm… Preeeetty sure that's not how divine birthright works…"

She just shrugged. "No, it's not. Elven supremacy definitely isn't a birthright thing. I think I said that already."

"But this hasn't answered the question of why we deserve to become like the gods."

"Because we can. I think I said that already. I mean, I know we can't right now, but if we can, that'll be the reason why. You'd be surprised how much of the world is the way it is because someone with power said so."

"So… If you have power, then you deserve to have power."

And that was, really, what this all boiled down to. There wasn't really any standard for deserving power, besides being able to have that power. Anyone who thought that only the morally righteous deserved power was in the same boat as the ones who believed the Thalmor's claims that only their elves deserved power. The whole idea of 'deserving' was something people just made up to try and get by in the world. It had nothing to do with how the world actually worked.

"Yeah, basically. History would agree with you on that one." Eredra nodded, then gestured to the Sleeping Tree. "Now… Speaking of powerful things, would you mind getting that sap out? I want to see what happens when we add it."

Darco obligingly unslung his backpack, knelt down by it, and fished out a big green glass bottle. They hadn't been sure how much sap to collect, so they'd erred on the side of caution. Eredra was pretty sure that bottle had been once used for holding wine.

"Wait…" The lieutenant held the bottle in his thighs and slowly twisted out the stopper. It reminded Eredra of how she'd probably have to open it if she tried. "Are you sure this is a good idea? We don't have backup. If this works, people will know we're here."

"If the Dragonborn, or… Whoever did this, if they wanted to destroy the Sleeping Tree, they would've done it already. It doesn't make any difference now. We'd just better get it going as quick as we can, so… Time for sap."

"What are we going to do with it? Just pour it in the water?"

"Better than trying to inject it into the side of the tree, right?"

"I know it's had one for sap going _out_. Not so much for going in." As he talked, he pulled the cork free, then wiped its bottom face on the bottle's lip. For tree sap, that stuff was pretty thick.

Eredra decided to just stand back and watch. She didn't need to supervise a subordinate officer emptying a bottle.

Darco was already kneeling by the pool. He just held out the bottle over the water and turned it downward. It was… Interesting to watch. For a moment, it didn't look like anything was going to happen, but then a thick, creamy glob of sap came rolling out into the open air. It trailed down on a thick strand before eventually breaking off and splashing in the water. Then came another, and another, as the seconds ticked by. The elf had to adjust his grip to both hands so he wouldn't tire out.

By the time the bottle was vaguely resembling empty, Eredra had been standing and watching for something like two minutes. She'd stopped watching the bottle after the first few drops. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the tree.

It wasn't obvious at first. The sap took time to diffuse in the water, and more time after that to be absorbed by the Sleeping Tree's roots. But this wasn't an ordinary remedy of healing alchemy. This was the sap of the oldest tree anyone had a memory of. If anything in the world could bring another tree back to health, they'd just poured it into this pool from a wine bottle.

Eredra sat down on the ground to watch. She barely even noticed the rush of relief in her leg muscles. This was going to be fascinating.

The first thing she noticed changing was the twigs. It was only barely visible with the passing seconds. She had to look at a spot, look away, and then look back in order to confirm it. But the ends of the tree's barren branches were starting to bud. Little blue buds, like the very start of springtime.

It was already happening. Not a minute had passed, and she could see the sap doing its work. Darco joined her in total silence. He barely even remembered to cork the bottle again.

At the same time, the bark was changing as well. The parts of it that looked like regular tree bark were shrinking. That glittering, iridescent purple-blue-pink tone was spreading over them, like broken skin under a healing spell. It was slow, so terribly slow, it took minutes upon tantalizing minutes, but Eredra didn't even move. History was being made at that very moment.

Then the buds began to sprout. She had never seen anything like this in her life. Right before her eyes, the little blue dots covering the tree's extremities were giving way to… Something much brighter. Brilliant, silvery-white slivers of growth, all coming into being as more minutes passed. They didn't look like something that belonged on any plant in existence. Not even the nirnroots could compare to this.

Soon enough, there was no denying what they were looking at. The growths had become flat and broad, and the silvery-white had settled down to a shining silvery-blue. They looked so… Alive. This whole tree looked more alive than anything Eredra had ever seen. It looked like this state, this extraordinary show of beauty, was the way this tree had always been meant to be.

Years of decay and degeneration, undone in minutes. An exception to the mortal plane's rule of destruction. If there were ever a symbol of hope for a better world, it was the Sleeping Tree adorned with gleaming blue leaves.

After some length of time, no idea how long, Darco broke the silence. "So what are we going to call it now?"

Eredra snapped to attention, blinked a couple times, and glanced at him. "What?"

"Well, we can't call it the Sleeping Tree anymore. It's awake."


	21. Aela 4

Fredas, 9:31 AM, 3rd of Rain's Hand, 4E 202

Whiterun Hold

Leaving the Reach was even harder than entering. They'd already defeated the enemy. The Silver Hand would never trouble them again, and neither would the Afflicted. They'd received quite a reward, unexpected as it was. And with that all done, it was now time to come back home for some proper celebration in Jorrvaskr's hall.

They just had to backtrack through a completely barren, ruined landscape first. The shock of it all wasn't any less on this trip. She still didn't feel like it was real. The Reach didn't resemble Skyrim anymore.

It was too bad she hadn't gotten a dragon for this one. They probably wouldn't have taken more than a day to go from Bthardamz to Riften. Getting to ride on Odahviing's back had spoiled her. Compared to that, the swiftest horse in Tamriel would have felt like riding on top of a horker.

That would've made for a funnier picture in her mind if she weren't traveling through the Reach. She wondered if they were going to keep calling it that now. It seemed unlikely—after all, Morrowind was still called Morrowind, despite it all. But the Reach that Aela had come to know and … if not love, then at least understand, over the years, that Reach was gone. This was a dead place.

She wondered if there would be any songs sung of the terror the Thalmor had brought upon this land. The Forsworn, vile as they'd often been, had put up a truly valiant fight, and they'd been crushed. The farmers and miners and craftsmen of the Reach had been slaughtered without a fight. Counting all the improvised mass graves, they must have passed by at least a thousand bodies on the way to Bthardamz.

And they passed by all those same bodies on the way back home. Aela had stopped feeling anything about it a while ago, but it was still a relief when they came over that last hill into the unburned plains of Whiterun Hold. They'd been looking at nothing but black ash and gray rock for days. It had almost started to feel real.

That was the thing Aela really wanted to get away from. The ash everywhere was unpleasant, but bearable. The bodies were disturbing, but she'd seen worse. In fact, the only thing that really got to her was that this _was _Skyrim. This was her homeland, and it was a lifeless ruin. And she'd been spending this whole trip feeling like it wasn't even real, like this whole landscape was from another plane of being, but it was slowly sinking in. This was a part of her world, the one she'd grown up in. It'd just been destroyed.

At least she'd managed to make it this far without saying 'I told you so' to the others.

Even now that they'd finished their job, the mood hadn't really changed. There hadn't been a lot of talking. It turned out that Brynjolf's friend in the Thieves Guild was actually a Nightingale, because the Nightingales were a real thing, of course, and the Skeleton Key was on loan from the Daedric Prince Nocturnal. In order to open a door. Aela hadn't really pushed for any more conversation beyond that.

Things got a little easier on the nerves once they were all back in Whiterun Hold. Not much easier, but at least they weren't riding through dead things all day. One thing was for sure: Aela had never been more relieved to see Dragonsreach. The Throat of the World had always been out there on the eastern horizon, growing ever larger as they traveled, but no landmark said home like the ancient keep standing over its open plains. In the distance, it looked almost like a little mountain itself.

Still, it wasn't until they were close enough to see the city's little smoke columns, and the ruins of the Western Watchtower, that anyone started talking again. After that trip through the Reach, there just hadn't been much to say.

Vilkas was the first to speak. No one had said a word for at least an hour. "We'd better find someplace to put that shield of yours, Aela."

Ever since they'd left Bthardamz, Aela had simply worn Spellbreaker on her back. It was an awkward, clumsy design compared to most shields. Fragile, too. If it weren't for the matter of it being a unique Daedric artifact, she would've just given it to someone else.

Still, unique Daedric artifact. She was sure someone would be happy to recognize it. And with her at the front of the line, everyone else got to just look at the shield's strange little patterns all day anyway.

"I was thinking my left hand would be a good bet," she answered over her shoulder. "Why, do you want to mount it on a wall?"

Farkas said, "Should've told me you wanted a wall trophy. We could've brought Orchendor's head."

"Outside a few cases of pact-binding hagravens, I don't think the Companions need severed heads for much," said Vilkas.

Brynjolf spoke up. "You do have a point there, Harbinger. What are we going to do with all these… These artifacts?"

"Well, shouldn't you know? You have one."

"Aye, lad, I got one. The Skeleton Key itself, no less. And it's in my saddlebag here right now. We just got two Daedric Artifacts all at once, and I've got no idea why. No explanation from Karliah, no explanation from Peryite."

At one point in history, the Western Watchtower had been an outpost and small garrison, sort of a midpoint between Whiterun and Fort Greymoor. It'd fallen into disrepair along with a lot of other old Nordic structures, but had stayed basically intact until the dragons' return. This was the location where the Dragonborn made battle with the ancient Mirmulnir. Aela wished she'd been there for that. All that was left was a half-collapsed pile of rubble where the tower had been.

"Way I heard it, Brynjolf, Peryite just wanted to get it off his hands."

"I dunno. It just doesn't feel right. Our luck can't be that good."

Farkas scoffed incredulously. "Our luck? Good? Our old Harbinger is dead and buried. The Silver Hand's been attacking us as often as the sun comes out. We had to make you into a werewolf so you wouldn't _die. _A couple fancy magic trinkets do not make things lucky for us."

"Well, obviously, lad, we need to all become Nightingales like Karliah. Luck just goes their way."

A black silhouette rose from within Whiterun's walls. It took a moment for Aela to realize that it was a dragon taking flight. It must have been actually inside the city. Maybe it'd been bringing some news about the war.

"Oh, look, we have a friend," Vilkas said flatly.

Farkas was still mentally a step behind. "Brynjolf, don't Nightingales serve Nocturnal?"

"Aye, souls bound to serve in the afterlife, that whole thing. You shouldn't feel too bad. We all seem to be tied to Hircine already, don't we? We can just let the two Prince sort it out amongst themselves."

"I don't… I don't think a Daedric Prince would let you serve them if you, uh… Belonged to another one already."

"Right, like that ever stops anyone from signing themselves off to ten different Daedra in a row."

While the others carried on talking, Aela kept her eyes ahead. The dragon was behaving strangely. Instead of just flying away in any one direction, it was making a lazy spiral outward from where it'd taken off. It really was a dark silhouette. Its scales looked to actually be all black. Apparently, that was possible for dragons who weren't Alduin.

That didn't really seem quite right. Maybe it was on a search mission? If so, they'd probably find out in a minute anyway.

Vilkas said, "I remember a time, not very long ago… A matter of months, really, where dragons were the greatest threat Skyrim had ever faced. And on one hand, I was terrified, because they are so far beyond our strength, but on the other hand… They were perfect to fight. No one could argue the point that they deserved to be our enemy. No politics, no picking sides, just them and us and honor on the line."

"Think you'd rather have it that way, still?" Aela asked without taking her eyes off the black dragon.

"I think they did less damage than the Thalmor have managed to. But then, the Dragonborn seems to have it under control in both cases. … And I suppose no one will argue about the Thalmor deserving to be our enemy."

Brynjolf had had a point with the artifacts. It might not have been simple good luck, but for them to come into possession of _one_ Daedric Artifact would've already been extremely slim chances. A second one just didn't seem possible. Maybe they'd need to go to some other ruin and beat people up to get more answers.

"Well, hey, look on the bright side," she said. "If any of the Thalmor come for us, I have the perfect thing to block their spells with now. And if they hide behind any super-strong locked doors, I'm sure that other thing will be some use too."

"Look, lass, I don't know why she gave it to me, you just…"

"Don't feel bad! Not everyone has the chance to open so many locks in their lives."

The dragon looked like it had spotted them. It doubled back on its path, back towards them, and swooped down to land on the top of the ruined Western Watchtower—not fifty yards away. It'd just gone from being a faraway silhouette to staring right down at them.

Sure enough, this was an all-black specimen. Well, black-and-gray. It looked down at the approaching riders in total silence. Odahviing's landing behind Jorrvaskr had been much more impressive than this.

Aela's horse didn't like this one bit. She had to struggle to not be thrown off right then and there. Animals were so much harder to tame than they were to hunt.

"Hail, dragon," she called out. "What brings you to Whiterun?"

"My presence is by the command of my superiors," the dragon called back, in a low, guttural voice. It was so strange how these creatures could use the Cyrodiilic tongue so well. Aela was pretty sure their mouths weren't even shaped right for it.

In any case, that answer really didn't help. "Who are you?"

"I am Viinturuth. You are the Companions of Whiterun, are you not?"

Viinturuth. Aela had never heard of this one before. Then again, besides Alduin, she'd only even heard of three other dragons by name. One's skull was on display in Dragonsreach, one had died right here at this tower, and one was a friend of hers now.

One of the horses behind her suddenly whinnied and scuffled around on the earth. The next thing Aela knew, there was a thud, a grunt of pain, and the horse was running off past them with no one riding it.

She turned around to see Brynjolf laying flat on his back, face screwed up tight. Horses weren't fond of dragons, obviously. It didn't matter. Whiterun was basically right there anyway.

When she turned back, Viinturuth was still just staring impassively. It looked very dragonlike.

"Yes," she said. "Our horses obviously do not share our bravery. But, uh… No, I'm serious, is everything all right? Dragons generally don't come to Whiterun bearing good news."

Brynjolf was struggling back onto his feet behind her, mumbling obscenities to himself.

"Want me to go get that horse for you, Brynjolf?" asked Vilkas.

The thief grunted in acknowledgment. "You're gonna need to, lad. The key's in the saddlebags."

Vilkas took off after the offending horse without another word. It was galloping off towards Whiterun, almost out of view already. Maybe they could ask Viinturuth for some help.

"No, today I come bearing good news indeed," said the dragon.

Aela turned her attention back up to him. "Please do share. I am curious."

"It's very simple. Allow me to put your fears at rest."

Viinturuth took a deep breath in.

Aela had a split second to realize that she should have had Spellbreaker in her hand instead of on her back.


End file.
